With Mirth In Funeral And With Dirge

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

There Lives Within The Very Flame Of Love A Kind Of Wick Or Snuff That Will Abate It.

Though Justice Be Thy Plea Consider This, That In The Course Of Justice None Of Us Should See Salvation.

Never; He Will Not: Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety: Other Women Cloy The Appetites They Feed: But She Makes Hungry Where Most She Satisfies.

My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown That Seldom Kings Enjoy.