Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?
Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.
Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.
In time we hate that which we often fear.