O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue

Is she not passing fair?

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)

All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test; here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.