And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.

Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.

Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing.

Here cometh April again, and as far as I can see the world hath more fools in it than ever.

Clap an extinguisher upon your irony if you are unhappily blessed with a vein of it.