There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

[Thine] face is not worth sunburning.

What's his offense? Groping for trout in a peculiar river.

In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.

There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently