So Many Horrid Ghosts.

To Weep Is To Make Less The Depth Of Grief.

Nature Teaches Beasts To Know Their Friends.

Alas, Poor Yorick! I Knew Him, Horatio: A Fellow Of Infinite Jest, Of Most Excellent Fancy: He Hath Borne Me On His Back A Thousand Times; And Now, How Abhorred In My Imagination It Is! My Gorge Rims At It. Here Hung Those Lips That I Have Kissed I Know Not How Oft. Where Be Your Gibes Now? Your Gambols? Your Songs? Your Flashes Of Merriment, That Were Wont To Set The Table On A Roar? Not One Now, To Mock Your Own Grinning? Quite Chap-fallen?

Things Done Well And With A Care, Exempt Themselves From Fear.

Robust Grass Endures Mighty Winds; Loyal Ministers Emerge Through Ordeal.