I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.
A very honest woman but something given to lie
Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?