O God, God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free art more engaged!
The miserable have no other medicine, but only hope.
Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessèd time; for from this instant there’s nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead, the wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees is left this vault to brag of.
I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun, and wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.
And why not death rather than living torment? To die, is to be banish’d from myself; And Silvia is myself; banish’d from her, Is self from self; a deadly banishment!
Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless!
