Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.

Related:

• While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
  William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Hamlet -- Act i,...
• Leave her to heaven And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
  To prick and sting her. -- William Shakespeare (1564...
• I will speak daggers to her, but use none. -- William Shakespeare (1564-1616),
  Hamlet -- Act iii, Sc....
• A little month. -- William Shakespeare (1564-1616),
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• The memory be green. -- William Shakespeare (1564-1616),
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• Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not "seems." 'T is not alone my inky cloak,
  good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black. ...
• T is a fault to Heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
  To reason most absurd. -- William Shakespeare (1564...
• In my mind's eye, Horatio. -- William Shakespeare (1564-1616),
  Hamlet -- Act i, Sc....