The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.

I was a coward on instinct.

Come, Lady, die to live.

I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched in so many giddy offences as He hath generally taxed their whole their whole sex withal.

I do know when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.