This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.

And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!