Men Are April When They Woo, December

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

He Is Winding The Watch Of His Wit; By And By It Will Strike.

Exit, Pursued By A Bear.