No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.

Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well.

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.