In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
Of chastity, the ornaments are chaste.
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!