Ill Fortune Seldom Comes Alone.

Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

Here Lies My Wife: Here Let Her Lie! Now She's At Rest, And So Am I.

Softly Sweet, In Lydian Measures, Soon He Sooth'd His Soul To Pleasures. War, He Sung, Is Toil And Trouble; Honour But An Empty Bubble; Never Ending, Still Beginning, Fighting Still, And Still Destroying. If All The World Be Worth The Winning, Think, Oh Think It Worth Enjoying: Lovely Thais Sits Beside Thee, Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.

By Education Most Have Been Misled.

Ill News Is Wing'd With Fate, And Flies Apace.