What Is More Miserable Than

Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper, And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth.... [w]hat Can We Bequeath, Save Our Deposed Bodies To The Ground?... [n]othing Can We Call Our Own, But Death... [l]et Us Sit Upon The Ground, And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings: - How Some Have Been Depos'd, Some Slain In War; Some Haunted By The Ghosts They Have Depos'd.

Why What A Fool Was I To This Drunken Monster For A God. - Caliban

Lady, You Are The Cruel'st She Alive If You Will Lead These Graces To The Grave And Leave The World No Copy.

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.

What Fates Impose, That Men Must Needs Abide; It Boots Not To Resist Both Wind And Tide.