I Will Not Choose What Many Men

In Black Ink My Love May Still Shine Bright.

It Is Certain That Either Wise Bearing Or Ignorant Carriage Is Caught As Men Take Diseases, One Of Another.

Let Every Man Be Master Of His Time.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!