Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

Good wombs have borne bad sons." -- (Miranda, I:2)

But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.