Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
I would fain die a dry death.
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies.
Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!