We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

What a fool honesty is.

For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.

Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

If people knew how much I hated them, they'd love me for holding it in.

Much rain wears the marble.

Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.