Lone Women, Like To Empty Houses, Perish.

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.

All Places Are Alike, And Every Earth Is Fit For Burial.

What Art Thou Faustus, But A Man Condemned To Die?

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

The Griefs Of Private Men Are Soon Allayed, But Not Of Kings.