Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.
Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.