A Little Water Clears Us Of This

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.

All's Well That Ends Well; Still The Fine's The Crown. Whate'er The Course, The End Is The Renown.

Every True Man's Apparel Fits Your Thief.

Make The Doors Upon A Woman's Wit, And It Will Out At The Casement; Shut That, And 'twill Out At The Key-hole; Stop That, 'twill Fly With The Smoke Out At The Chimney.

You Cannot, Sir, Take From Me Any Thing That I Will More Willingly Part Withal: Except My Life, Except My Life, Except My Life.