He Is Well Paid That

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

Full Fathom Five Thy Father Lies

O God, O God, How Weary, Stale, Flat, And Unprofitable Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World!

In Me Thou See'st The Twilight Of Such Day As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By And By Black Night Doth Take Away Death's Second Self, That Seals Up All In Rest. -sonnet 73

Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your Brain.