Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
So many horrid Ghosts.
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.