And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

Words Are Easy, Like The Wind; Faithful Friends Are Hard To Find.

I Heard A Bird So Sing, Whose Music, To My Thinking, Pleased The King.

Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More; It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

Let's Take The Instant By The Forward Top; For We Are Old, And On Our Quick'st Decrees The Inaudible And Noiseless Foot Of Time Steals Ere We Can Effect Them.

An Angel; Or, If Not, An Earthly Paragon.