How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.

It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo

If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.