O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

I do know when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.

Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?