So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

Extremity is the trier of spirits.

Few love to hear the sins they love to act.

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

Hamlet: Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Ophelia: No, my lord. Hamlet: DId you think I meant country matters? Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Ophelia: What is, my lord? Hamlet: Nothing.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.