The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends.

Let them obey that knows not how to rule.

Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.