The Stroke Of Death Is As A

O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

All The World's A Stage, And All The Men And Women Merely Players: They Have Their Exits And Their Entrances; And One Man In His Time Plays Many Parts, His Acts Being Seven Ages.

Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May.

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.