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.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.

Great griefs medicine the less.

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.