And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not

O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.I something do excuse the thing I hate.

Striving to be better, oft we mar what's well.

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth, But, being moody, give him time and scope, Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, Confound themselves with working.

They were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.