Never Anger Made Good Guard For Itself.

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.

Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows Us A Man: They Are All But Stomachs, And We All But Food; They Eat Us Hungerly, And When They Are Full They Belch Us.

For Death Remembered Should Be Like A Mirror, Who Tells Us Life’s But Breath, To Trust It Error.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.

To Be Slow In Words Is A Woman's Only Virtue.