I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.

Be merry; you have cause, so have we all, of joy; for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.

I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!