The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.
Misery makes sport to mock itself.
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
Good old grandsire ... we shall be joyful of thy company.