The sense of death is most in apprehension.
Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties
The apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so.