In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
For mine own part, it was Greek to me.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass.