When Bounteous Autumn Rears Her Head, He

Love Is Not In Our Choice But In Our Fate.

The Good We Have Enjoyed From Heaven's Free Will, And Shall We Murmur To Endure The Ill?

Here Lies My Wife: Here Let Her Lie! Now She's At Rest, And So Am I.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

Kings Fight For Empires, Madmen For Applause.