Death Hath So Many Doors To Let

Man Is His Own Star, And The Soul That Can, Render An Honest And A Perfect Man, Commands All Light, All Influence, All Fate: Nothing To Him Falls Early Or Too Late. Our Acts Are Angels Are, For Good Or Ill: Our Fatal Shadows That Walk By Us Still.

A Woman Friend! He That Believes That Weakness, Steers In A Stormy Night Without A Compass.

'tis Virtue, And Not Birth That Makes Us Noble: Great Actions Speak Great Minds, And Such Should Govern.

The Coward's Weapon, Poison.

Care-charming Sleep, Thou Easer Of All Woes, Brother To Death, Sweetly Thyself Dispose.