The Words Of Mercury Are Harsh After

When That Churl Death My Bones With Dust Shall Cover.

Why Are Our Bodies Soft, And Weak, And Smooth But That Our Soft Conditions And Our Hearts Should Well Agree With Our External Parts?

Thou Shalt Not Stir One Foot To Seek A Foe.

To Move Wild Laughter In The Throat Of Death? It Cannot Be; It Is Impossible: Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.