It Is Silliness To Live

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

I'll Speak In A Monstrous Little Voice.

He Is Dead And Gone, Lady, He Is Dead And Gone; At His Head A Grass-green Turf, At His Heels A Stone.

Wise Men Never Sit And Wail Their Loss, But Cheerily Seek How To Redress Their Harms.

Men Must Endure Their Going Hence, Even As Their Coming Hither. Ripeness Is All.