What my tongue dares not that my heart shall say
It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.
Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!