Too nice, and yet too true!

Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.

I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.

Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.