The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

Nature does require her times of preservation.

Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

There is nothing serious in Mortality

for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

Every why hath a wherefore.