Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. - William Shakespeare

What light through yonder window breaks?

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies.