A Great Cause Of The Night Is

Avaunt, You Cullions!

But Yet I'll Make Assurance Double Sure, And Take A Bond Of Fate: Thou Shalt Not Live.

We, Ignorant Of Ourselves, Beg Often Our Own Harms, Which The Wise Powers Deny Us For Our Good; So Find We Profit By Losing Of Our Prayers.

Grief Makes One Hour Ten.

When That Churl Death My Bones With Dust Shall Cover.