Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.

Tempt not a desperate man

Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.