... And death unloads thee.

But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.

Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.

O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.