These words are razors to my wounded heart.
Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story
But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them." Viola: "Thy reason, man?" Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.
By that sin fell the angels.
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.