Look, look! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not this a lightning? O my love, my wife, Death that hath ta’en her hence to wait, I beseech thee, youth, Put not another sin upon my head off with a martial scorn, with one of thy parts And thou make us minstrels? And