Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
Say, thou art mine; and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.
No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
Beware the ides of March.