The apparel oft proclaims the man.
She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.
There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!