O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth
My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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.