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.

What is past is prologue.

For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.

The cunning livery of hell.

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

How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.