At This Hour Lie At My Mercy

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

Every Cloud Engenders Not A Storm.

In Nature's Infinite Book Of Secrecy A Little I Can Read.

Most Friendship Is Feigning, Most Loving Mere Folly.

There's Her Cousin, An She Were Not Possessed With A Fury, Exceeds Her As Much In Beauty As The First Of May Doth The Last Of December.