I See, Sir, You Are Liberal In

Death Makes No Conquest Of This Conqueror: For Now He Lives In Fame, Though Not In Life.

When Sorrows Come, They Come Not Single Spies, But In Battalions.

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?

A Woman That Is Like A German Clock, Still A-repairing, Ever Out Of Frame, And Never Going Aright, Being A Watch, But Being Watched That It May Still Go Right!

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.