Some Cupid Kills With Arrows,

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

Men Should Be What They Seem; Or Those That Be Not, Would They Might Seem None!.

Let Fame, That All Hunt After In Their Lives, Live Regist'red Upon Our Brazen Tombs And Then Grace Us In The Disgrace Of Death; When, Spite Of Cormorant Devouring Time, Th' Endeavor Of This Present Breath May Buy That Honor Which Shall Bate His Scythe's Keen Edge And Make Us Heirs Of All Eternity.

For A Noble Heart, The Most Precious Gift Becomes Poor, When The Giver Stops Loving.

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.