Love And Meekness, Lord, Become A Churchman

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent Of Bearing Them Is Just.

Every Thing That Grows / Holds In Perfection But A Little Moment.

Who Can Be Patient In Extremes?

My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown That Seldom Kings Enjoy.