Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.
Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
The icy precepts of respect.
The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.