'Tis pride that pulls the country down.

Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.

Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

O sir, you are old; nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine; you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.