Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool.

And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.

O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.