A Shippe And A Woman Are Ever

All Came From, And Will Goe To Others.

It's More Paine To Doe Nothing Then Something.

Grief Melts Away Like Snow In May, As If There Were No Such Cold Thing.

Thou Hast Death In Thy House, And Dost Bewaile Anothers.

I Read, And Sigh, And Wish I Were A Tree; For Sure Then I Should Grow To Fruit Or Shade: At Least Some Bird Would Trust Her Household To Me, And I Should Be Just.