We All Labour Against Our

Yet Is Every Man His Greatest Enemy, And, As It Were, His Own Executioner.

There Is Musick, Even In The Beauty And The Silent Note Which Cupid Strikes, Far Sweeter Than The Sound Of An Instrument.

All Things Are Artificial, For Nature Is The Art Of God.

A Little Water Makes A Sea, A Small Puff Of Wind A Tempest.

Half Our Days We Pass In The Shadow Of The Earth; And The Brother Of Death Exacteth A Third Part Of Our Lives.