Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.

I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own

If money go before, all ways do lie open.