Courage mounteth with occasion.

The golden age is before us, not behind us.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

To you your father should be as a god.

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.

Every cloud engenders not a storm.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. — Adieu, my lord! I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly drowns it.