Silence is the herald of joy.
Time is a very bankrout and owes more than he's worth to season.
Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever.
But in the beaten way of friendship what make you at Elsinore?
My soul is in the sky.
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd to suffer, with a quietness of spirit, the very tyranny and rage of his.