Oh what fools we mortals are.

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.

O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!