Tired With All These, For Restful Death

Live How We Can, Yet Die We Must.

The Miserable Have No Other Medicine But Only Hope.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

Every Why Hath A Wherefore.

In Time The Savage Bull Doth Bear The Yoke.