One sees more devils than vast hell can hold

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?

That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water