Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of

Wise Men Ne'er Sit And Wail Their Woes, But Presently Prevent The Ways To Wail.

By Heaven, I Love Thee Better Than Myself

Those That Much Covet Are With Gain So Fond, For What They Have Not, That Which They Possess They Scatter And Unloose It From Their Bond, And So, By Hoping More, They Have But Less; Or, Gaining More, The Profit Of Excess Is But To Surfeit, And Such Griefs Sustain, That They Prove Bankrupt In This Poor-rich Gain.

What Is Done Cannot Be Now Amended.

To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream - Ay, There's The Rub, For In This Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.