I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

I scorn you, scurvy companion.

Benvolio- "By my head, here come the Capulets." Mercutio- "By my heel, I care not.

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

An old black ram is tupping your white ewe