Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try.
My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!