This sickness doth infect the very life-blood of our enterprise.
These lies are like their father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable.
The blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh; And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous.
If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work.
I never see thy face, but I think upon hell-fire.
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
And like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!