Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

There Is A Tide In The Affairs Of Men

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His Face Is The Worst Thing About Him.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.

Take All The Swift Advantage Of The Hours.