Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?