Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me

Let Age, Not Envy, Draw Wrinkles On Thy Cheeks.

God Hath Varied The Inclinations Of Men According To The Variety Of Actions To Be Performed.

Life Itself Is But The Shadow Of Death, And Souls Departed But The Shadows Of The Living.

For There Is A Music Wherever There Is A Harmony, Order, Or Proportion, And Thus Far We May Maintain The Music Of The Spheres.

I Would Not Live Over My Hours Past ... Not Unto Cicero's Ground Because I Have Lived Them Well, But For Fear I Should Live Them Worse.