There's Villainous News Abroad.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

Poor And Content Is Rich, And Rich Enough.

For Where Thou Art, There Is The World Itself, With Every Several Pleasure In The World, And Where Thou Art Not, Desolation.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?

O Death, Made Proud With Pure And Princely Beauty!