Speak Comfortable Words.

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension, And The Poor Beetle, That We Tread Upon, In Corporal Sufferance Finds A Pang As Great As When A Giant Dies.

Sleep Dwell Upon Thine Eyes, Peace In Thy Breast! Would I Were Sleep And Peace, So Sweet To Rest.

So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.​​​​​​

Journeys End In Lovers Meeting.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.