The Greatest Attribute Of Heaven Is Mercy.

Our Lives Are But Our Marches To The Grave.

There Is A Method In Man's Wickedness; It Grows Up By Degrees.

Kiss Till The Cow Comes Home.

Let No Man Fear To Die, We Love To Sleep All, And Death Is But The Sounder Sleep.

Who Doubting Tyranny, And Fainting Under Fortune's False Lottery, Desperately Run To Death, For Dread Of Death; That Soul's Most Stout, That, Bearing All Mischance, Dares Last It Out.