The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
Allow not nature more than nature needs.
I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh