If Music Be The Food Of Love,

Wishers Were Ever Fools.

What's Done Can't Be Undone.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.

Death Rock Me Asleep.

Alas, I Am A Woman Friendless, Hopeless!