Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

Our Holy Lives Must Win A New World's Crown.

There's Hope A Great Man's Memory May Outlive His Life Half A Year.

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

Alas, How Love Can Trifle With Itself!

He Capers, He Dances, He Has Eyes Of Youth, He Writes Verses, He Speaks Holiday, He Smells April And May.