The Nature Of Bad News Affects The

Madam, You Have Bereft Me Of All Words, Only My Blood Speaks To You In My Veins.

Here Comes A Man Of Comfort, Whose Advice Hath Often Stilled My Brawling Discontent.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

As You Are Old And Reverend, You Should Be Wise.