To show an unfelt sorrow is an office / Which the false man does easy.

What should be spoken here, where our fate, / Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? / Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d.

There’s warrant in that theft / Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.

But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th' everlasting bonfire.

Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.

I drink to the general joy o’ th’ whole table, / And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: / Would he were here.

Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous / It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain / To kill their gracious father? damned fact! / How it did grieve Macbeth!

That will never be: / Who can impress the forest; bid the tree / Unfix his earth-bound root?

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! / What is't you do?

Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.