People Can Die Of Mere Imagination.

Til That The Brighte Sonne Loste His Hewe; For Th'orisonte Hath Reft The Sonne His Lyght; This Is As Muche To Seye As It Was Nyght!

In April The Sweet Showers Fall And Pierce The Drought Of March To The Root, And All The Veins Are Bathed In Liquor Of Such Power As Brings About The Engendering Of The Flower.

There's Never A New Fashion But It's Old.

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

In The Stars Is Written The Death Of Every Man.