I am ill at these numbers.

A table-full of welcome!

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.

Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.

Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.

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.