Ill News Is Wing'd With Fate, And

And After Hearing What Our Church Can Say, If Still Our Reason Runs Another Way, That Private Reason 'tis More Just To Curb, Than By Disputes The Public Peace Disturb; For Points Obscure Are Of Small Use To Learn, But Common Quiet Is Mankind's Concern.

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Death In Itself Is Nothing; But We Fear To Be We Know Not What, We Know Not Where.

The Trumpet's Loud Clangor Excites Us To Arms.