Short Summers Lightly Have A Forward Spring.

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.

There Is A Devilish Mercy In The Judge, If You'll Implore It, That Will Free Your Life, But Fetter You Till Death.

Dream On, Dream On, Of Bloody Deeds And Death.

I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years.

They Are In The Very Wrath Of Love, And They Will Go Together. Clubs Cannot Part Them