But to persevere / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief, / It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, / A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, / An understanding simple and unschool’d;

A little month, or ere those shoes were old / With which she followed my poor father’s body / Like Niobe, all tears.—

Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die, / Passing through nature to eternity.

The canker galls the infants of the spring / Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, / And in the morn and liquid dew of youth / Contagious blastments are most imminent.

I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; / And for my soul, what can it do to that, / Being a thing immortal as itself?

What may this mean, / That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, / Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, / Making night hideous, and we fools of nature / So horridly to shake our disposition / With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound / As it did seem to shatter all his bulk / And end his being.

Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, / And with a look so piteous in purport / As if he had been loosed out of hell / To speak of horrors,

The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, / Black as his purpose, did the night resemble / When he lay couched in the ominous horse, / Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d / With heraldry more dismal.

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter?