O Death, Made Proud With Pure And

All The World Is A Stage And We Are Merely Players.

O Call Not Me To Justify The Wrong, That Thy Unkindness Lays Upon My Heart, Wound Me Not With Thine Eye But With Thy Tongue, Use Power With Power, And Slay Me Not By Art.

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

How Oft The Sight Of Means To Do Ill Deeds Makes Ill Deeds Done!

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.