"How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life."

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I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul; lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.

— Ben Jonson