I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

She dreams of him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

Hang those that talk of fear.