Give Me To Drink Mandragora.

Let Fame, That All Hunt After In Their Lives, Live Regist'red Upon Our Brazen Tombs And Then Grace Us In The Disgrace Of Death; When, Spite Of Cormorant Devouring Time, Th' Endeavor Of This Present Breath May Buy That Honor Which Shall Bate His Scythe's Keen Edge And Make Us Heirs Of All Eternity.

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

A Sympathy In Choice.

And Since You Know You Cannot See Yourself, So Well As By Reflection, I, Your Glass, Will Modestly Discover To Yourself, That Of Yourself Which You Yet Know Not Of.

And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up.