As good luck would have it.
Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
Every why has a wherefore.
This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!
Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.