Comets Importing Change Of Times And States,

O Sir, You Are Old; Nature In You Stands On The Very Verge Of Her Confine; You Should Be Ruled And Led By Some Discretion, That Discerns Your Fate Better Than You Yourself.

We Must Every One Be A Man Of His Own Fancy.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

When Sorrows Come, They Come Not Single Spies, But In Battalions.