Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.

Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both.

O war! thou son of Hell!

Stars hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.