Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.

Thou know'st the first time that we smell the air we wawl and cry. When we are born we cry, that we are come to this great state of fools.

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?

The sweetest honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness. And in the taste destroys the appetite. Therefore, love moderately.

Horatio. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!