Let The End Try The Man.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

My Purpose Is, Indeed, A Horse Of That Color.

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineer Hoist With His Own Petar; And't Shall Go Hard But I Will Delve One Yard Below Their Mines And Blow Them At The Moon.

Violent Fires Soon Burn Out Themselves, Small Showers Last Long, But Sudden Storms Are Short; He Tires Betimes That Spurs Too Fast.