How low am I, thou painted maypole?

Put money in thy purse.

But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!

I have lov'd her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.