Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.

Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)

we are the lords of all eternity

Passion makes the will lord of the reason.

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.