Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

...Vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.