Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

I'll have no husband, if you be not he.

The time is out of joint.

Sweets to the sweet.

Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.

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.

Best men oft are moulded out of faults.