Woe, Alas, To Those Who Have Loved

Large, Heavy, Ragged Black Clouds Hung Like Crape Hammocks Beneath The Starry Cope Of The Night. You Would Have Said That They Were The Cobwebs Of The Firmament.

What's Our Baggage? Only Vows, Happiness, And All Our Care, And The Flower That Sweetly Shows Nestling Lightly In Your Hair.

A Wretched Woman Is More Unfortunate Than A Wretched Man.

But When Ill Indeed, Even Dismissing The Doctor Don't Always Succeed.

Without At All Invalidating What We Have Just Said, We Believe That A Perpetual Remembrance Of The Tomb Is Proper For The Living. On This Point, The Priest And The Philosopher Agree: We Must Die.