Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.
We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
A wicked conscience mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thoughts.
Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use
They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed; And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, But coward-like with trembling terror die