Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp

To Think But Nobly Of My Grandmother: Good Wombs Have Borne Bad Sons.

The Sweat Of Industry Would Dry And Die, But For The End It Works To.

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.

Despair And Die. The Ghosts

We That Are True Lovers Run Into Strange Capers; But As All Is Mortal In Nature, So Is All Nature In Love Mortal In Folly.