I Would Not Live Over My Hours

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.

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

The Long Habit Of Living Indisposeth Us For Dying.

A Little Water Makes A Sea, A Small Puff Of Wind A Tempest.

What Song The Syrens Sang, Or What Name Achilles Assumed When He Hid Himself Among Women, Though Puzzling Questions, Are Not Beyond All Conjecture.