I Hate Ingratitude More In A Man

If Love Be Blind, Love Cannot Hit The Mark

So Wise So Young, They Say, Do Never Live Long.

Ay, But To Die And Go We Know Not Where; To Lie In Cold Obstrution And To Rot; This Sensible Warm Motion To Become A Kneaded Clod; And The Delighted Spirit To Bathe In Fiery Floods Or To Reside In Thrilling Regions Of Thick-ribbed Ice; To Be Imprison'd In The Viewless Winds, And Blown With Restless Violence Round About The Pendant World.

None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing Them.

As I Love The Name Of Honour More Than I Fear Death.