Thyself shall see the act; For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.

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.

Swift as shadow, short as any dream

The present eye praises the present object.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.