Lone Women, Like To Empty Houses, Perish.

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I Am Asham'd, However That I Seem, To Think A Word Of Such Simple Sound, Of Such Great Matter Should Be Made The Ground.

Honour Is Purchas'd By The Deeds We Do.

Nature That Framed Us Of Four Elements, Warring Within Our Breasts For Regiment, Doth Teach Us All To Have Aspiring Minds: Our Souls, Whose Faculties Can Comprehend The Wondrous Architecture Of The World, And Measure Every Wandering Planet's Course, Still Climbing After Knowledge Infinite, And Always Moving As The Restless Spheres, Wills Us To Wear Ourselves, And Never Rest, Until We Reach The Ripest Fruit Of All, That Perfect Bliss And Sole Felicity, The Sweet Fruition Of An Earthly Crown.

The Stars Move Still, Time Runs, The Clock Will Strike