So Shalt Thou Feed On Death, That

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

No, No; 'tis All Men's Office To Speak Patience To Those That Wring Under The Load Of Sorrow, But No Man's Virtue Nor Sufficiency To Be So Moral When He Shall Endure The Like Himself. Therefore Give Me No Counsel: My Griefs Cry Louder Than Advertisement.

It's Easy For Someone To Joke About Scars If They've Never Been Cut.

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.

Thou Know'st 'tis Common; All That Lives Must Die, Passing Through Nature To Eternity.