Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
The hideous god of war.
A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.