This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
The sense of death is most in apprehension.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
Love will not be spurred to what it loathes
Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!