Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.
If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.
Welcome ever smiles, and farewell goes out sighing.