The Clock Upbraids Me With

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.

He That Has A House To Put's Head In Has A Good Head-piece.

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief? O Sweet My Mother, Cast Me Not Away! Delay This Marriage For A Month, A Week, Or If You Do Not, Make The Bridal Bed In That Dim Monument Where Tybalt Lies.

There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die, No Soul Will Pity Me.