Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions; these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

Love's best habit is a soothing tongue

I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.

Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.