A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out,

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypres Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath; I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid.

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.

I Love Thee; None But Thee, And Thou Deservest It

Sycorax Has Grown Into A Hoop

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.