As Merry As The Day Is Long.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

You Must Confine Yourself Within The Modest Limits Of Order.

The Nature Of Bad News Affects The Teller.

Live How We Can, Yet Die We Must.