And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.
The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.
If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.
O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.