Death, Not Romeo, Take My Maidenhead!

Four Days Will Quickly Steep Themselves In Nights; Four Nights Will Quickly Dream Away The Time; And Then The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven, Shall Behold The Night Of Our Solemnities.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds, That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief?

Death Makes No Conquest Of This Conqueror: For Now He Lives In Fame, Though Not In Life.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.

I Go, I Go, Look How I Go, Swifter Than An Arrow From A Bow