We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it, Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! DEATH. The sense of death is most in apprehension; Cowards die many times before their deaths; Will come, when it will come. O, our lives sweetness! That with the pain of death we'd hourly die, Rather than die at once. The sleeping, and the dead, Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood, That fears a painted devil. That life is better life, past fearing death," Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life, Receive what cheer you may; W To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, The weariest, and most loathed worldly life, To what we fear of death. The tongues of dying men Inforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. If thou and nature can so gently part, Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Duncan is in his grave After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Herein fortune shews herself more kind To let the wretched man out-live his wealth, O, amiable lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, And I will kiss thy detestable bones; And ring these fingers with thy household worms; And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself: Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st, O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms.. Yes, thou must die : Thou art too noble to conserve a life In base appliances. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit All comfort go with thee! No medicine in the world can do thee good, It is too late; the life of all his blood About the hour of eight, (which he himself He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. O mighty Cæsar ! dost thou lie so low? But yesterday the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe O, my love! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Had I but dy'd an hour before this chance, D All is but toys: renown, and grace, is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. Lay her i' the earth ; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, My cloud of dignity, There is so hot a summer in my bosom, Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids Thou know'st, 'tis common; all, that live, must die, Passing through nature to eternity. For further life in this world I ne'er hope; Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies |