For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.