Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.

I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.