Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.