The Stars Move Still, Time Runs, The

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?

Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

Lone Women, Like To Empty Houses, Perish.

It Is A Comfort To The Miserable To Have Comrades In Misfortune, But It Is A Poor Comfort After All.

Now I Will Show Myselfto Have More Of The Serpent Than The Dove;that Is--more Knave Than Fool.