Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

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.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.

My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!