Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords.
alack, our terrene moon Is now eclipsed; and it portends alone The fall of Antony!
Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day! This round world's but a bitter pill." We too are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not.