Now is the winter of our discontent.

Your "if" is the only peacemaker; much virtue in "if.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo; O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

Be just, and fear not.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?