Time does not have the same appeal for every one
Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
The icy precepts of respect.
Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.