Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
You kiss by th' book.
Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own.