Sweets to the sweet.
Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
This liberty is all that I request.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.