To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast!
How my achievements mock me!
Miracles are ceased; and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Best men oft are moulded out of faults.
Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors.