Death and Mourning

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.

Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry.

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies A lass unparallel’d.

If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts, and is desir’d.

Husband, I come.

I have Immortal longings in me.

I wish you joy of the worm.

The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.

And it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change.

Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion, And make death proud to take us.

O! wither’d is the garland of the war, The soldier’s pole is fall’n; young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.

But I will be A bridegroom in my death, and run into ’t As to a lover’s bed.

O sun! Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in; darkling stand The varying shore o’ the world.

Unarm, Eros; the long day’s task is done, And we must sleep.

Why should I play the Roman fool; and die On mine own sword?

She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more; it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? What! all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop?

What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?