Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

We will have rings and things and fine array

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.

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

One sin another doth provoke.

Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.