When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!

The object of Art is to give life a shape.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.

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!

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

No evil lost is wailed when it is gone.