Thomas Kyd

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 eyesNow 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.

Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs.

Comedies are fit for common wits: But to present a kingly troop withal, Give me a stately-written tra

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.