So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

The nature of bad news affects the teller.

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.