The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.

Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.

By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.

A young man married is a man that's marred.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.