With Mirth In Funeral And With Dirge

Virtue Is Bold, And Goodness Never Fearful.

A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun.

What Must Be Shall Be.

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

One Sees More Devils Than Vast Hell Can Hold