Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table." Macbeth

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.