Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: 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

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

When most I wink, then do my eyes best see

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

O! that a man might know The end of this day's business, ere it come; But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known.

The proverb is something musty.