"War[wick]. See how the pangs of death do make him grin. / Sal[isbury]. Diſturbe him not, let him paſſe peaceably."
— 1591 (date written), William Shakespeare, “The Second Part of Henry the Sixt, […]”, in Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies. […] (First Folio), London: […] Isaac Iaggard, and Ed[ward] Blount, published 1623, →OCLC, [Act III, scene iii], page 137, column 1:
"He is knight dubb'd with vnhatche'd Rapier, and on carpet conſideration, but he is a diuell in priuate brall, soules and bodies hath he diuorc'd three, and his incenſement at this moment is ſo implacable, that ſatisfaction can be none, but by pangs of death and ſepulcher: Hob, nob, is his word: giu't or take't."
— c. 1601–1602 (date written), William Shakespeare, “Twelfe Night, or What You Will”, in Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies […] (First Folio), London: […] Isaac Iaggard, and Ed[ward] Blount, published 1623, →OCLC, [Act III, scene iv], page 269:
"But, oh! what pangs torment the deſtin’d heart, / That feels the wound, yet dare not ſhow the dart; / What eaſe could Ovid to his ſorrows give, / Who muſt not ſpeak, and therefore cannot live?"
— a. 1722, Matthew Prior, “Written in Lady Howe’s Ovid’s Epistles”, in The Poetical Works of Matthew Prior, Esq. […], Edinburgh: Printed by Mundell and Son, […], published 1793, →OCLC; republished in Robert Anderson, editor, The Works of the British Poets. […], volume VII, London: Printed for John & Arthur Arch; and for Bell & Bradfute, and J. Mundell & Co. Edinburgh, 1795, →OCLC, page 456, column 1:
""Will it hurt much?"—"No, mine own: / I wish I could bear the pang for both." / "I wish I could bear the pang alone: / Courage, dear, I am not loth.""
— 1862, Christina Rossetti, “In the Round Tower at Jhansi, June 8, 1857”, in Goblin Market and Other Poems, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire; London: Macmillan & Co., […], →OCLC, page 31:
"So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb."
— 1888 May, Oscar Wilde, “The Nightingale and the Rose”, in The Happy Prince and Other Tales, London: David Nutt, […], →OCLC, pages 37–38: