Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.

I am not in the giving vein today.

Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

Making night hideous.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.