There's Hope A Great Man's Memory May

Men That Make Envy And Crooked Malice Nourishment, Dare Bite The Best.

What Fates Impose, That Men Must Needs Abide; It Boots Not To Resist Both Wind And Tide.

Canst Thou Not Minister To A Mind Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

This Sleep Is Sound Indeed; This Is A Sleep That From This Golden Rigol Hath Divorc'd So Many English Kings.