Many That Are Not Mad Have, Sure,

The World Must Be Peopled!

Avaunt, You Cullions!

Sit By My Side, And Let The World Slip: We Shall Ne'er Be Younger.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest, And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From This World-wearied Flesh. Eyes, Look Your Last! Arms, Take Your Last Embrace! And, Lips, O You The Doors Of Breath, Seal With A Righteous Kiss A Dateless Bargain To Engrossing Death!

A Rarer Spirit Never Did Steer Humanity; But You Gods Will Give Us Some Faults To Make Us Men.