“This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.”

“Come and take choice of all my library and so beguile thy sorrow.”

“To show an unfelt sorrow is an officeWhich the false man does easy.”

“For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;I tell you that which you yourselves do know;”

“Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.”

“How does your patient, doctor?Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest.Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart.Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.”

“So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.”