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“Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what,--get thee to church o' Thursday, Or never after look me in the face: Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; My fingers itch.”
“Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off: When, presently, through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:”
“-- Alas, alas!--Help, help! My lady's dead!-- O, well-a-day that ever I was born!-- Some aqua-vitae, ho!--my lord! my lady!"
“Ha! let me see her:--out alas! she's cold; Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff”
O woful time!
“Then she is well, and nothing can be ill: Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault"
“Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!-- ”
“A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun for sorrow will not show his head.”
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