Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.
Fortune reigns in gifts of the world.
For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Do not spread the compost on the weeds.