Wicked Is Not Much Worse Than Indiscreet.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

This Extasie Doth Unperplex (we Said) And Tell Us What We Love, Wee See By This, It Was Not Sexe, Wee See, We Saw Not What Did Move: But As All Severall Soules Contain Mixture Of Things, They Know Not What, Love, These Mixt Souls, Doth Mixe Againe. Loves Mysteries In Soules Doe Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Booke.

Death Comes Equally To Us All, And Makes Us All Equal When It Comes.

Festive Alcohol Sometimes Leads To An Excess Of Honesty.