O Death, Made Proud With Pure And

Lives Like A Drunken Sailor On A Mast, Ready With Every Nod To Tumble Down Into The Fatal Bowels Of The Deep.

... And Death Unloads Thee.

Adieu! I Have Too Grieved A Heart To Take A Tedious Leave.

Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!