Greatness knows itself.

Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.

Much rain wears the marble.