Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Don't judge a man's conscience by looking at his face cause he may have a bad heart.

We must every one be a man of his own fancy.