Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

What need the bridge much broader than the flood?

Done to death by slanderous tongue

Then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.