All Must Yield To The

At The Point When Affection Is Not Frenzy, It Is Not Adore.

Grief Has Been Compared To A Hydra; For Every One That Dies, Two Are Born.

These Flowers, Which Were Splendid And Sprightly, Waking In The Dawn Of The Morning, In The Evening Will Be A Pitiful Frivolity, Sleeping In The Cold Night's Arms.

A Friar Who Asks Alms For God's Sake Begs For Two.

What Is Life? A Madness. What Is Life? An Illusion, A Shadow, A Story. And The Greatest Good Is Little Enough: For All Life Is A Dream, And Dreams Themselves Are Only Dreams.