Let her not walk i' th' sun. Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive.

More matter, with less art.

’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage / And pious action we do sugar o’er / The devil himself.

None wed the second but who kill'd the first.

Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna.

For ’tis the sport to have the enginer / Hoist with his own petard,

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.

I will work him / To an exploit, now ripe in my device, / Under the which he shall not choose but fall; / And for his death no wind shall breathe, / But even his mother shall uncharge the practice / And call it accident.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, / And therefore I forbid my tears.