They say, best men are molded out of faults; And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

A rarer spirit neverDid steer humanity; but you, gods, will give usSome faults to make us men.

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.

All, with one consent, praise newborn gawds (sic), though they are made and molded of things past