Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.
They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.