Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

Come, Lady, Die To Live.

Omittance Is No Quittance.

Neither My Place, Nor Aught I Heard Of Business, Hath Raised Me From My Bed; Nor Doth The General Care Take Hold On Me; For My Particular Grief Is Of So Floodgate And O'erbearing Nature That It Engluts And Swallows Other Sorrows, And It Is Still Itself.

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypres Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath; I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid.

Sometimes, Less Is More.