Our Holy Lives Must Win A New

O' Thinkest Thou We Shall Ever Meet Again? I Doubt It Not; And All These Woes Shall Serve For Sweet Discourses In Our Times To Come.

Every Offense Is Not A Hate At First.

Why, I Can Smile And Murder Whiles I Smile, And Cry 'content' To That Which Grieves My Heart, And Wet My Cheeks With Artificial Tears, And Frame My Face For All Occasions

Though Yet Of Hamlet Our Dear Brother's Death The Memory Be Green.

This Sanguine Coward, This Bed-presser, This Horseback-breaker, This Huge Hill Of Flesh!