Take Not Away The Life

Let Fortune Empty Her Whole Quiver On Me, I Have A Soul That, Like An Ample Shield, Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More; Fate Was Not Mine, Nor Am I Fate's: Souls Know No Conquerors.

She, Though In Full-blown Flower Of Glorious Beauty, Grows Cold Even In The Summer Of Her Age.

Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The Last.

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

Ill Habits Gather Unseen Degrees, As Brooks Make Rivers, Rivers Run To Seas.