Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form

Trust not your daughter's minds By what you see them act.

The love of heaven makes one heavenly.

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

The devil knew what he did when he made men politic; he crossed himself by it.

Thou unfit for any place but hell.