Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

So, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.

Grief makes one hour ten.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Lawless are they that make their wills their law.

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.