He's A Soldier; And For One To

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

The Lowest Ebb Is The Turn Of The Tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made Of.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

A Beggar's Book Outworths A Noble's Blood.

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.