Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
All dark and comfortless.
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own.