Wishers were ever fools.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.