Patch Up Thine Old Body For Heaven.

'tis Not Enough To Help The Feeble Up, But To Support Them After.

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.

Marry, Sir, They Praise Me And Make An Ass Of Me. Now My Foes Tell Me Plainly I Am An Ass; So That By My Foes, Sir, I Profit In The Knowledge Of Myself, Any By My Friends I Am Abused; So That, Conclusions To Be As Kisses, If Your Four Negatives Make Your Two Affirmatives, Why Then, The Worse For My Friends, And The Better For My Foes.

This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In His Arrest.

Sweet Recreation Barred, What Doth Ensue But Moody And Dull Melancholy, Kinsman To Grim And Comfortless Despair.