I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.
Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?