Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

What else may hap, to time I will commit.

We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

All pride is willing pride.

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.