To Fear The Foe, Since Fear Oppresseth

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest Fell. Though All Things Foul Would Wear The Brows Of Grace, Yet Grace Must Still Look So.

After Life's Fitful Fever He Sleeps Well. Treason Has Done His Worst. Nor Steel Nor Poison, Malice Domestic, Foreign Levy, Nothing Can Touch Him Further.

A Knavish Speech Sleeps In A Fool's Ear.

Look, What A Horse Should Have He Did Not Lack, Save A Proud Rider On His Back.