Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth