Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.

Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.

Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.