Do sleep Sweet Baron, do rest now (Quorra's lament for the late Clovis I)

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? — To die, to sleep.

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.

This consummation is now yours to be savoured.

Do sleep Sweet Baron, do rest now.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes.

None of these are now yours to be suffered.

Do sleep Sweet Baron, do rest now.

I knew him, Riverlings, I did know him! A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath saved me a thousand times from harrowing death but where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave overhanging firmament, this majestic roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me then a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

What a piece of work was Clovis! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of his swordplay! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

Do sleep Sweet Baron, do rest now.