What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

He was not so much brain as earwax

The jury passing on the prisoner's life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try.

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.