The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails.
I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are.
'Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
I love long life better than figs.
Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been. 'Tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place.
He will give the devil his due.
While I play the good husband at home, my son and his servant spend all at the university.
When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins: I was a gentleman; And then I told you true.