Friendship is full of dregs.

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)