Misery makes sport to mock itself.
Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
Full many a glorious morn I have seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.
Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.
These blessed candles of the night.
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)