For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.