Memory, The Warder Of The Brain.

One Pain Is Lessened By Another's Anguish.

The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is Her Tomb.

Infirm Of Purpose! Give Me The Daggers: The Sleeping And The Dead Are But As Pictures: ‘tis The Eye Of Childhood That Fears A Painted Devil

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

The Art Of Our Necessities Is Strange That Can Make Vile Things Precious.