Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

Things May Serve Long, But Not Serve Ever.

Die For Adultery! No: The Wren Goes To't, And The Small Gilded Fly Does Lecher In My Sight

Why, There's A Wench! Come On, And Kiss Me, Kate.

This Rudeness Is A Sauce To His Good Wit, Which Gives Men Stomach To Digest His Words With Better Appetite.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run.