Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.
Use them after your own honour and dignity; the less they deserve, the more merit in your bounty. - Hamlet to Polonius.
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
It is the green eyed monster which doth mock.
Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well.