The cycle is broken. The flame has departed. The crutch is only ashes now.

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou are pouring thy sould abroad
in such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-
To thy high requiem become a sod.

...

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

FIRST MURDERER: (Stabbing him)What, you egg?
Young fry of treachery!
SON: He has killed me, mother.
Run away, I pray you!

This doth betoken
The corse they follow did with desperate hand
Fordo its own life

poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgement,
Without the which we are pictures, or mere
Beasts

[Appendix to: February]