For Here, I Hope, Begins Our Lasting

What Time Hath Scanted Men In Hair, He Hath Given Them In Wit.

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A Man As Modest Stillness And Humility.

Romans, Countrymen, And Lovers, Hear Me For My Cause, And Be Silent, That You May Hear.

In Such Business Action Is Eloquence, And The Eyes Of Th’ Ignorant More Learned Than The Ears.