If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

Though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve.

Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.

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