Things May Serve Long, But Not Serve

I'll Follow Thee And Make A Heaven Of Hell, To Die Upon The Hand I Love So Well

Farewell The Tranquil Mind! Farewell Content! Farewell The Plumed Troops, And The Big Wars That Make Ambition Virtue.

A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling, Blasphemous, Incharitable Dog!

O Sir, You Are Old; Nature In You Stands On The Very Verge Of Her Confine; You Should Be Ruled And Led By Some Discretion, That Discerns Your Fate Better Than You Yourself.

I Heard A Bustling Rumor Like A Fray, And The Wind Blows It From The Capitol.