And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
To whom God will, there be the victory.
I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.
Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.