What's Done Cannot Be Undone.

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

There Are Occasions And Causes, Why And Wherefore In All Things.

By My Soul I Swear, There Is No Power In The Tongue Of Man To Alter Me.