To business that we love we rise betime, and go to't with delight.

I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.

For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!