Quotes About Deception

And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.

He that is proud eats up himself; pride in his glass, his trumpet, his chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise

Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

I speak of peace, while covert enmity under the smile of safety wounds the world

Though those who are betrayed do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe.

Some guard these traitors to the block of death, Treason's true bed and yielder up of breath.

Everything that gristles is not gold.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told.

The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief: He robs himself that spends a bootless grief

Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,For 'tis of aspics' tongues!

O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!

'Tis the strumpet's plagueTo beguile many and be beguil'd by one.

No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,And crook the pregnant hinges of the kneeWhere thrift may follow fawning.

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

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid,And not have strew'd thy grave.

Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides;Who covers faults, at last shame them derides.

They fool me to the top of my bent.

We have seen the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves.

Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.

Fish not, with this melancholy bait,For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.

I found you as a morsel, cold uponDead Caesar's trencher.

What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

O father Abram! what these Christians are,Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspectThe thoughts of others.

O thou weed!Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweetThat the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born.