All of Creation’s a farce. Man was born as a joke. In his head his reason is buffeted Like wind-blown smoke. Life is a game. Everyone ridicules everyone else. But he who has the last laugh Laughs longest.

Death rock me asleep.

Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?

Hardness ever of hardness is mother.