O, Call Back Yesterday, Bid

How Ill White Hairs Become A Fool And Jester!

If By Chance I Talk A Little Wild, Forgive Me; I Had It From My Father.

The Prize Of All Too Precious You.

A Glooming Peace This Morning With It Brings; The Sun, For Sorrow, Will Not Show His Head: Go Hence, To Have More Talk Of These Sad Things; Some Shall Be Pardon'd, And Some Punished: For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

Go Wisely And Slowly. Those Who Rush Stumble And Fall.