Speak Me Fair In Death.

Night's Candles Have Burned Out, And Jocund Day Stands Tiptoe On The Misty Mountaintops." Hope Tinged With Melancholy - Like Life.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

Wooing, Wedding, And Repenting Is As A Scotch Jig, A Measure, And A Cinque-pace: The First Suit Is Hot And Hasty Like A Scotch Jig--and Full As Fantastical; The Wedding, Mannerly Modest, As A Measure, Full Of State And Ancientry; And Then Comes Repentance And With His Bad Legs Falls Into The Cinque-pace Faster And Faster, Till He Sink Into His Grave.

Time Is The Nurse And Breeder Of All Good.

While He Was Drunk Asleep, Or In His Rage, Or In The Incestuous Pleasure Of His Bed.