The object of Art is to give life a shape.
I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.
A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.