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.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.

O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.

I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.