The Sense Of Death Is Most In

The Deep Of Night Is Crept Upon Our Talk, And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

Give Me My Robe, Put On My Crown; I Have Immortal Longings In Me.

He Does It With Better Grace, But I Do It More Natural.

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

The Best Is Yet To Come.