Death Hath So Many Doors

Deeds, Not Words Shall Speak Me.

Come, Sing Now, Sing; For I Know You Sing Well; I See You Have A Singing Face.

Man Is His Own Star, And The Soul That Can, Render An Honest And A Perfect Man, Commands All Light, All Influence, All Fate: Nothing To Him Falls Early Or Too Late. Our Acts Are Angels Are, For Good Or Ill: Our Fatal Shadows That Walk By Us Still.

It's Impossible To Ravish Me, I'm So Willing.

Hence, All You Vain Delights, As Short As Are The Nights Wherein You Spend Your Folly! There's Naught In This Life Sweet But Only Melancholy; O Sweetest Melancholy!