Truth hath a quiet breast.

Truth is truth To th' end of reck'ning.

O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt.

It is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.

There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

Through tattered clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometimes by action dignified.