Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)
... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.