So. Lie there, my art.

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: today he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, tomorrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening - nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

So curses all Eve's daughters of what complexion soever.

Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.

Good with out evil is like light with out darkness which in turn is like righteousness whith out hope.

Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.