It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.

whats here a cup closed in my true loves hand poisin i see hath been his timeless end. oh churl drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after. i will kiss thy lips some poisin doth hang on them, to help me die with a restorative. thy lips are warm. yea noise then ill be brief oh happy dagger this is thy sheath. there rust and let me die.

O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

The Dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service; Are they inform'd of this?

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends