Our Wills And Fates Do

The Third Day Comes A Frost, A Killing Frost.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.

What's Past And What's To Come Is Strew'd With Husks And Formless Ruin Of Oblivion.

More Can I Bear Than You Dare Execute.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.