Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.

Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.