Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

O Thou Invisible Spirit Of Wine, If Thou Hast No Name To Be Known By, Let Us Call Thee Devil.

This We Prescribe, Though No Physician; Deep Malice Makes Too Deep Incision; Forget, Forgive; Conclude And Be Agreed; Our Doctors Say This Is No Month To Bleed.

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

But Since The Affairs Of Men Rests Still Incertain, Let's Reason With The Worst That May Befall.

Farewell, A Long Farewell To All My Greatness! This Is The State Of Man: Today He Puts Forth The Tender Leaves Of Hope, Tomorrow Blossoms, And Bears His Blushing Honours Thick Upon Him: The Third Day Comes A Frost, A Killing Frost, And - When He Thinks, Good Easy Man, Full Surely His Greatness Is A-ripening - Nips His Root, And Then He Falls, As I Do.