No man is an island unto himself.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

I neglect God and his angles for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.

And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?

That which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither; but an obscenity.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.