The Coward's Weapon, Poison.

Joys As Winged Dreams Fly Fast, / Why Should Sadness Longer Last? / Grief Is But A Wound To Woe; / Gentlest Fair, Mourn, Mourn No Moe.

We Must Not Be Content To Be Cleansed From Sin; We Must Be Filled With The Spirit.

Care-charming Sleep, Thou Easer Of All Woes, Brother To Death, Sweetly Thyself Dispose.

Hence, All You Vain Delights, As Short As Are The Nights Wherein You Spend Your Folly! There's Naught In This Life Sweet But Only Melancholy; O Sweetest Melancholy!

Speak Boldly And Speak Truly, Shame The Devil.