For Love, Thou Know'st, Is Full Of

Silence Is Only Commendable In A Neat's Tongue Dried, And A Maid Not Vendible.

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

. . . Nothing In His Life Became Him Like The Leaving It; He Died As One That Had Been Studied In His Death To Throw Away The Dearest Thing He Owed, As 'twere A Careless Trifle.

They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony; Where Words Are Scarce, They're Seldom Spent In Vain; For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain.

Why, Courage Then! What Cannot Be Avoided 'twere Childish Weakness To Lament Or Fear.