Upon His Royal Face There Is No

Death Is My Son-in-law. Death Is My Heir. My Daughter He Hath Wedded. I Will Die, And Leave Him All. Life, Living, All Is Death’s.

When Sorrows Come, They Come Not Single Spies, But In Battalions.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

Have I Thought Long To See This Morning’s Face, And Doth It Give Me Such A Sight As This?

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.