William Shakespeare

What’s past is prologue.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, which we ascribe to heaven.

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.