My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.