Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.