Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!
And to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.