Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

I may command where I adore.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.

Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.

Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.