The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens. - William Shakespeare

In time we hate that which we often fear.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth,
Let's choose executors and talk of wills

Out, damned spot! out, I say! — One, two; why, then ‘tis time to do’t. — Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? — Yet who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him? The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? — What, will these hands ne’er be clean? — No more o’that, my lord, no more o’that: you mar all with this starting. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!