Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.

What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.

There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quenched them hath given me fire.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.

Be merry; you have cause, so have we all, of joy; for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.