For Brutus Is An Honourable Man; So

Let Fame, That All Hunt After In Their Lives, Live Regist'red Upon Our Brazen Tombs And Then Grace Us In The Disgrace Of Death; When, Spite Of Cormorant Devouring Time, Th' Endeavor Of This Present Breath May Buy That Honor Which Shall Bate His Scythe's Keen Edge And Make Us Heirs Of All Eternity.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

They Met So Near With Their Lips That Their Breaths Embraced Together.

Present Mirth Hath Present Laughter. What's To Come Is Still Unsure.

Good Old Grandsire ... We Shall Be Joyful Of Thy Company.