One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
Take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
In Shakespeare's time, as in ours and all other times, the paths of men and women do not often run in exactly the same directions, except to the common graves that hold us all.