I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

Cease Thy Counsel, For Thy Words Fall Into My Ears As Priceless As Water Into A Seive.

I Feel Within Me A Peace Above All Earthly Dignities, A Still And Quiet Conscience.

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.

Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper, And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth.... [w]hat Can We Bequeath, Save Our Deposed Bodies To The Ground?... [n]othing Can We Call Our Own, But Death... [l]et Us Sit Upon The Ground, And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings: - How Some Have Been Depos'd, Some Slain In War; Some Haunted By The Ghosts They Have Depos'd.