The World Must Be Peopled!

Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.

Open Thy Gate Of Mercy, Gracious God, My Soul Flies Through These Wounds To Seek Out Thee.

Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.

To-morrow, And To-morrow, And To-morrow, Creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day, To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time; And All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools The Way To Dusty Death. Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More. It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.