We Make Trifles Of Terrors, Ensconcing Ourselves

Ingrateful Man With Liquorish Draughts, And Morsels Unctuous, Greases His Pure Mind That From It All Consideration Slips.

I Drink To The General Joy O’ The Whole Table." Macbeth

The Benediction Of These Covering Heavens Fall On Their Heads Like Dew, For They Are Worthy To Inlay Heaven With Stars.

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.