Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head.
The nature of bad news affects the teller.
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
What is aught but as 'tis valued?