Patch Grief With Proverbs.

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

All Furnished, All In Arms; All Plum'd Like Estridges That With The Wind Bated Like Eagles Having Lately Bathed; Glittering In Golden Coats Like Images; As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May And Gorgeous As The Sun At Midsummer; Wanton As Youthful Goats, Wild As Young Bulls.

I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity With Cozening Hope.

Thou Art All The Comfort, The Gods Will Diet Me With.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.