Nothing's So Dainty Sweet As Lovely Melancholy.

But What Is Past My Help Is Past My Care.

Kiss Till The Cow Comes Home.

Who Doubting Tyranny, And Fainting Under Fortune's False Lottery, Desperately Run To Death, For Dread Of Death; That Soul's Most Stout, That, Bearing All Mischance, Dares Last It Out.

Nothing's So Dainty Sweet As Lovely Melancholy.

Our Lives Are But Our Marches To The Grave.