I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.

Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.

Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.

All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.

Give me my sin again.