Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

For now they kill me with a living death.

Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.

Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.