If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death! - William Shakespeare

what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,
Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock or livery
That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight,
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence; the next more easy;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature.