I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

A Smile Cures The Wounding Of A Frown.

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

Report Me And My Cause Aright.

Her Blood Is Settled, And Her Joints Are Stiff; Life And These Lips Have Long Been Separated: Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost Upon The Sweetest Flower Of All The Field.