Death Hath A Fairer Fame Than A

For The Poison Of Hatred Seated Near The Heart Doubles The Burden For The One Who Suffers The Disease; He Is Burdened With His Own Sorrow, And Groans On Seeing Another's Happiness.

We Spoil Ourselves With Scruples Long As Things Go Well.

Fear Hurries On My Tongue Through Want Of Courage.

A Man Dies Not For The Many Wounds That Pierce His Breast, Unless It Be That Life's End Keep Pace With Death, Nor By Sitting On His Hearth At Home Doth He The More Escape His Appointed Doom.

Hungry Wailing Standeth Not Aloof.