Thou Art Sad; Get Thee

Have You Not A Moist Eye, A Dry Hand, A Yellow Cheek, A White Beard, A Decreasing Leg, An Increasing Belly? Is Not Your Voice Broken, Your Wind Short, Your Chin Double, Your Wit Single, And Every Part About You Blasted With Antiquity?

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My Account With All My Imperfections On My Head.

Men At Sometime Are The Masters Of Their Fate.

There Is A World Elsewhere.