A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.