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.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

A very honest woman but something given to lie

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.