There's No Better Sign Of A Brave

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.

For Who So Firm That Cannot Be Seduced?

A Man In All The World's New Fashion Planted, That Hath A Mint Of Phrases In His Brain.

Women May Fail When There Is No Strength In Man

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.