for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths.

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.

I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.