Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

I Am Very Proud, Revengeful, Ambitious, With More Offences At My Beck Than I Have Thoughts To Put Them In, Imagination To Give Them Shape, Or Time To Act Them In.

Crowns Have Their Compass-length Of Days Their Date- Triumphs Their Tomb-felicity, Her Fate- Of Nought But Earth Can Earth Make Us Partaker, But Knowledge Makes A King Most Like His Maker.

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

Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The Chief.