Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.

The time is out of joint.

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.