Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
Love laughs at locksmiths.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have; but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not" (5.3.25-28).
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.