Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
Blood will have blood.
Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.