There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.

He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

Despair and die. The ghosts

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.