Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain

Virtuous And Fair, Royal And Gracious.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art Not So Unkind, As Man's Ingratitude.

Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty Shadows.

Fairest Cordelia, That Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Loved, Despised! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon: Be It Lawful I Take Up What's Cast Away. Gods, Gods! 'tis Strange That From Their Cold'st Neglect My Love Should Kindle To Inflamed Respect. Thy Dowerless Daughter, King, Thrown To My Chance, Is Queen Of Us, Of Ours, And Our Fair France: Not All The Dukes Of Waterish Burgundy Can Buy This Unprized Precious Maid Of Me. Bid Them Farewell, Cordelia, Though Unkind: Thou Losest Here, A Better Where To Find.

And Oftentimes Excusing Of A Fault Doth Make The Fault The Worse By The Excuse.