We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.

I may command where I adore.

Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?