The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.

Time is the king of men.

You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.