So fair and foul a day I have not seen.

Infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

I hate ingratitude more in a man
than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
inhabits our frail blood".

Give your sorrow words. The grief that does not speak builds up softly in the heart, and bids it break.