Half Our Days We Pass In The

Think Not Silence The Wisdom Of Fools; But, If Rightly Timed, The Honor Of Wise Men, Who Have Not The Infirmity, But The Virtue Of Taciturnity.

We Term Sleep A Death By Which We May Be Literally Said To Die Daily; In Fine, So Like Death, I Dare Not Trust It Without My Prayers.

Do The Devils Lie? No; For Then Even Hell Could Not Subsist.

The Noblest Digladiation Is In The Theatre Of Ourselves.

Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me Try By Sleeping, What It Is To Die, And As Gently Lay My Head On My Grave, As Now My Bed.