Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest

Beauty Is But A Vain And Doubtful Good; A Shining Gloss That Fadeth Suddenly; A Flower That Dies When It Begins To Bud; A Doubtful Good, A Gloss, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour.

And Oftentimes Excusing Of A Fault Doth Make The Fault The Worse By The Excuse, As Patches Set Upon A Little Breach, Discredit More In Hiding Of The Fault Than Did The Fault Before It Was So Patch'd.

What's The Newest Grief? Each Minute Tunes A New One.

O Madam, My Old Heart Is Cracked, It's Cracked!

Be Not Afraid Of Greatness.