Sleep With Clean Hands, Either

I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber, And I Call And Invite God And His Angels Thither.

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

To Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But At Home, Such Freedom Doth A Banishment Become.

Great Sorrows Cannot Speak.

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?