Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.
Security is the chief enemy of mortals.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
And simple truth miscalled simplicity