Tis A Cruelty To Load A Fallen

Thus Can The Demigod Authority Make Us Pay Down For Our Offense By Weight The Words Of Heaven; On Whom It Will, It Will, On Whom It Will Not, So: Yet Still 'tis Just.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

O Hell! To Choose Love With Another's Eye.

Care Is No Cure, But Rather Corrosive, For Things That Are Not To Be Remedied.

Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.