You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson

Omission To Do What Is Necessary Seals A Commission To A Blank Of Danger; And Danger, Like An Ague, Subtly Taints Even Then When We Sit Idly In The Sun.

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

Your Praises Will Become Your Wages.

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.