They are hare-brain'd slaves.

I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor.

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!