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.

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.

Comedies are fit for common wits: But to present a kingly troop withal, Give me a stately-written tragedy; Tragadia cothurnata, fitting kings, Containing matter, and not common things.

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.