Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
Parting is such sweet sorrow
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
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!