If All The Year Were Playing Holidays;

Is He On His Horse? O Happy Horse, To Bear The Weight Of Antony!

When He Shall Die, Take Him And Cut Him Out In Little Stars, And He Will Make The Face Of Heaven So Fine That All The World Will Be In Love With Night And Pay No Worship To The Garish Sun.

A Hand As Fruitful As The Land That Feeds Us; His Dew Falls Everywhere.

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

All His Successors Gone Before Him Have Done 't; And All His Ancestors That Come After Him May.