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We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it,
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!
The sense of death is most in apprehension
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
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;
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
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 Than is her custom: it is still her use, To let the wretched man out-live his wealth, To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, An age of poverty; from which lingering penance Of such misery doth she cut me off.
-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;
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!
For none abides with me: my joy is-death;
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
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,
All is but toys: renown, and grace,
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,
Is held from falling with so weak a wind,
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
When death's approach is seen so terrible!
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;