Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.
O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
Nice customs curtsy to great kings.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.