I See That The Fashion Wears Out

Canst Thou Not Minister To A Mind Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain

There's Some Ill Planet Reigns: I Must Be Patient Till The Heavens Look With An Aspect More Favourable.

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men; And Being Men, Hearing The Will Of Caesar, It Will Inflame You, It Will Make You Mad.

I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.