No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.

a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief

I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.

The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.