Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.
I once saw many flowers blooming Upon my way, in indolence I scorned to pick them in my going And passed in proud indifference. Now, when my grave is dug, they taunt me; Now, when I'm sick to death in pain, In mocking torment still they haunt me, Those fragrant blooms of my disdain.
Money bequeathed to my wife on the express condition that she remarry. I want at least one person to be truly bereaved by my death.