Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.

The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.

Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.

Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.

Do not spread the compost on the weeds.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.