These blessed candles of the night.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.
You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Where every something, being blent together, turns to a wild of nothing.
Well, if fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear.
To do a great right, do a little wrong.
There is no vice so simple, but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
So may the outward shows be least themselves, the world is still deceived with ornament.
