The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
Use almost can change the stamp of nature.
Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
They that touch pitch will be defiled.
Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.