Come, civil night, thou sober-suited matron all in black.
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
Certain, men should be what they seem.
Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled, since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name.
By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes: open, locks, whoever knocks!
By that sin fell the angels.
But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture tell them that God bids us do good for evil; and thus I clothe my naked villany with old odd ends stol’n forth of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil.
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!
But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see.
But jealous souls will not be answer’d so; they are not ever jealous for the cause, but jealous for they are jealous.
But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.