Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Friendship is full of dregs.

As good luck would have it.

I love a ballad but even too well if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

Trust not your daughter's minds By what you see them act.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.

Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.