This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
Grief makes one hour ten.
Of chastity, the ornaments are chaste.
I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.