Who Wooed In Haste, And Means To

Earth-treading Stars That Make Dark Heaven Light

Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest Mask.

Brutus, I Do Observe You Now Of Late: I Have Not From Your Eyes That Gentleness And Show Of Love As I Was Wont To Have: You Bear Too Stubborn And Too Strange A Hand Over Your Friend That Loves You. Poor Brutus, With Himself At War, Forgets The Shows Of Love To Other Men.

How Much Better Is It To Weep At Joy Than To Joy At Weeping?

The Golden Age Is Before Us, Not Behind Us.