There Is Delight In Singing,

Shakespeare Is Not Our Poet, But The World's.

The Flame Of Anger, Bright And Brief, Sharpens The Barb Of Love.

Life And Death Appear More Certainly Ours Than Whatsoever Else; And Yet Hardly Can That Be Called Ours, Which Comes Without Our Knowledge, And Goes Without It.

Kings Play At War Unfairly With Republics; They Can Only Lose Some Earth, And Some Creatures They Value As Little, While Republics Lose In Every Soldier A Part Of Themselves.

Let Me Take Up Your Metaphor. Friendship Is A Vase, Which, When It Is Flawed By Heat Or Violence Or Accident, May As Well Be Broken At Once; It Can Never Be Trusted After. The More Graceful And Ornamental It Was, The More Clearly Do We Discern The Hopelessness Of Restoring It To Its Former State. Coarse Stones, If They Are Fractured, May Be Cemented Again; Precious Stones, Never.