The Sight Of Lovers Feedeth Those In

May Never Glorious Sun Reflex His Beams Upon The Country Where You Make Abode! But Darkness And The Gloomy Shade Of Death Environ You Till Mischief And Despair Drive You To Break Your Necks Or Hang Yourselves.

To Do A Great Right Do A Little Wrong.

World, World, O World! But That Thy Strange Mutations Make Us Hate Thee/ Life Would Not Yield To Age.

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.

Beware The Ides Of March.