Wisdom Cries Out In The Streets, And

For In That Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Grief Best Is Pleased With Grief's Society.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Their Understanding Begins To Swell And The Approaching Tide Will Shortly Fill The Reasonable Shores That Now Lie Foul And Muddy.