Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly, woman its pretty self.

Ornament is but the guiled shore to a most dangerous sea.

Your praises will become your wages.