You Abilities Are Too Infant-like For Doing

Farewell, My Sister, Fare Thee Well. The Elements Be Kind To Thee, And Make Thy Spirits All Of Comfort: Fare Thee Well.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

Tempt Not A Desperate Man

If This Were Played Upon A Stage Now, I Could Condemn It As An Improbable Fiction.

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.