Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!

Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.

It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.

Every why hath a wherefore.

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.