Most Subject Is The Fattest Soil To

Be Merry; You Have Cause, So Have We All, Of Joy; For Our Escape Is Much Beyond Our Loss . . . . Then Wisely Weigh Our Sorrow With Our Comfort.

I See You Stand Like Greyhounds In The Slips, Straining Upon The Start. The Game's Afoot; Follow Your Spirit: And Upon This Charge, Cry — God For Harry! England And Saint George!

We Must Be Brief When Traitors Brave The Field.

There's Place And Means For Every Man Alive.

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?