Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.
Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; he tires betimes that spurs too fast.