At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
Commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways.
A man cannot make him laugh - but that's no marvel; he drinks no wine.
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.