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Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe

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Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

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And it is very much lamented,...
That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye
That you might see your shadow.

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The chains of habit are generally too small to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.

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