Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

I must be cruel only to be kind; Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.