Our Swords Shall Play The Orators For

Lone Women, Like To Empty Houses, Perish.

Goodness Is Beauty In The Best Estate.

It Lies Not In Our Power To Love Or Hate, For Will In Us Is Overruled By Fate.

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.

What Art Thou Faustus, But A Man Condemned To Die?