I must be cruel, only to be kind.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

Grief best is pleased with grief's society.

Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?