O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
Barnes are blessings.
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
Love does not see with the eyes, but with the soul.
Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight
O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.