Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?
My love though silly is more brave.
Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
The day breaks not, it is my heart.