Ah Me, How Weak A Thing The

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!

Young Adam Cupid, He That Shot So Trim, When King Cophetua Loved The Beggar-maid!

This Sleep Is Sound Indeed; This Is A Sleep That From This Golden Rigol Hath Divorc'd So Many English Kings.

That You Were Once Unkind Befriends Me Now, And For That Sorrow, Which I Then Did Feel, Needs Must I Under My Transgression Bow, Unless My Nerves Were Brass Or Hammered Steel.

I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His Name Is.