To Suffering There Is A Limit; To

So That Every Wand Or Staff Of Empire Is Forsooth Curved At Top.

Why Should I Be Angry With A Man For Loving Himself Better Than Me?

The Stage Is More Beholding To Love Than The Life Of Man. For As To The Stage, Love Is Ever Matter Of Comedies And Now And Then Of Tragedies; But In Life It Doth Much Mischief, Sometimes Like A Siren, Sometimes Like A Fury.

What, Then, Remains But That We Still Should Cry, For Being Born, And, Being Born, To Die?

The Less People Speak Of Their Greatness, The More We Think Of It.