If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)

There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.

There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.

He that dies pays all debts.