What's done can't be undone.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the indenture of my love.
Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.