Is There No Respect Of Place, Persons,

O Villains, Vipers, Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man!

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!

Hold, Or Cut Bowstrings.

Do Not Swear By The Moon, For She Changes Constantly. Then Your Love Would Also Change.