Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men May Do; We Shou'd Be Woo'd, And Were Not Made To Woo

What A Terrible Era In Which Idiots Govern The Blind.

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

So Musical A Discord, Such Sweet Thunder.