Fruits That Blossom First Will First Be

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.

Love Thrives Not In The Heart That Shadows Dreadeth

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Eyed, Such Seems Your Beauty Still. Three Winters Cold Have From The Forests Shook Three Summers' Pride, Three Beauteous Springs To Yellow Autumn Turn'd In Process Of The Seasons Have I Seen, Three April Perfumes In Three Hot Junes Burn'd, Since First I Saw You Fresh, Which Yet Are Green.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.