Faint Heart Never Won Fair Maid.

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping Winter Treads.

O England! Model To Thy Inward Greatness, Like Little Body With A Might Heart.

It Is Not Night When I Do See Your Face, Therefore I Think I Am Not In The Night; Nor Doth This Wood Lack Worlds Of Company, For You In My Respect Are All The World: Then How Can It Be Said I Am Alone, When All The World Is Here To Look On Me?