When beggars die, there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
Enough no more; Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions
Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.
Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!