When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

Live how we can, yet die we must.

And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.

The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.

Two women placed together makes cold weather.

Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.

Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.