The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed.

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.

Let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

A little water clears us of this deed.

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.