How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

The gloomy shade of death.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it; the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.

What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough.