My soule, poore soule thou talkes of things/ Thou knowest not what, my soule hath sliver wings,/ That mounts me up unto the highest heavens.
BEL-IMPERIA: Oh let me go; for in my troubled eyes Now may'st thou read that life in passion dies. HORATIO: Oh stay a while, and I will die with thee; So shalt thou yield, and yet have conquered me.
Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes; To place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes. For here though death doth end their misery, I'll there begin their endless tragedy.
Comedies are fit for common wits: But to present a kingly troop withal, Give me a stately-written tragedy; , fitting kings, Containing matter, and not common things.
