Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion
Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions
Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.
Misery makes sport to mock itself.