Indeed There's A Woundy Luck In Names.

The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon The Orator.

The Voice So Sweet, The Words So Fair, As Some Soft Chime Had Stroked The Air; And Though The Sound Had Parted Thence, Still Left An Echo In The Sense.

When A Virtuous Man Is Raised, It Brings Gladness To His Friends, Grief To His Enemies, And Glory To His Posterity.

Your Highest Female Grace Is Silence.

Were Guilt Is, Rage And Courage Doth Abound.