Sit By My Side, And Let The

If Thou Couldst, Doctor, Cast The Water Of My Land, Find Her Disease, And Purge It To A Sound And Pristine Health, I Would Applaud Thee To The Very Echo, That Should Applaud You Again.

Moderate Lamentation Is The Right Of The Dead, Excessive Grief The Enemy To The Living.

And Where The Offense Is, Let The Great Axe Fall.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.