He That Hath The Steerage Of My

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

For Youth No Less Becomes The Light And Careless Livery That It Wears, Than Settled Age His Sables, And His Weeds Importing Health And Graveness.

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

For A Noble Heart, The Most Precious Gift Becomes Poor, When The Giver Stops Loving.