To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

The head is not more native to the heart.

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.

Sweet are the uses of adversity