Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

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?

Bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.

There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

Men's vows are women's traitors