It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye,

Therefore, To Be Possess'd With Double Pomp, To Guard A Title That Was Rich Before, To Gild Refined Gold, To Paint The Lily, To Throw A Perfume On The Violet, To Smooth The Ice, Or Add Another Hue Unto The Rainbow, Or With Taper-light To Seek The Beauteous Eye Of Heaven To Garnish, Is Wasteful And Ridiculous Excess.

Lord, Lord, How This World Is Given To Lying!

You Are Thought Here To The Most Senseless And Fit Man For The Job.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.