For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue,

What Sadness Lengthens Romeo’s Hours?

All Of Creation’s A Farce. Man Was Born As A Joke. In His Head His Reason Is Buffeted Like Wind-blown Smoke. Life Is A Game. Everyone Ridicules Everyone Else. But He Who Has The Last Laugh Laughs Longest.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

There Should Be Hours For Necessities, Not For Delights; Times To Repair Our Nature With Comforting Repose, And Not For Us To Waste These Times.

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.