Lone Women, Like To Empty Houses, Perish.

Nothing Violent, Oft Have I Heard Tell, Can Be Permanent.

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.

You Stars That Reigned At My Nativity, Whose Influence Hath Allotted Death And Hell.

Is It Not Passing Brave To Be A King And Ride In Triumph Through Persepolis?

Goodness Is Beauty In The Best Estate.