The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
Love is . . . a madness most discreet
Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
How well he's read, to reason against reading!