This is the short and the long of it.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

Ay, is it not a language I speak?

for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.

The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.