O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.

How every fool can play upon the word!

What a piece of work is a man