Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile

The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

He That Dies Pays All Debts.

So Wise So Young, They Say, Do Never Live Long.

Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma Or A Hideous Dream.