Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With

Weariness Can Snore Upon The Flint When Resting Sloth Finds The Down Pillow Hard.

It Is Not, Nor It Cannot, Come To Good, But Break, My Heart, For I Must Hold My Tongue.

What The Great Ones Do, The Less Will Prattle Of

Do Not Plunge Thyself Too Far In Anger.

When Death Doth Close His Tender Dying Eyes.