Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

Hang those that talk of fear.

Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.