I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

No Man Is An Island, Entire Of Itself; Every Man Is A Piece Of The Continent.

True And False Fears Let Us Refrain, Let Us Love Nobly, And Live, And Add Again Years And Years Unto Years, Till We Attain To Write Threescore ; This Is The Second Of Our Reign.

That Thou Remember Them, Some Claim As Debt; I Think It Mercy, If Thou Wilt Forget.

Old Grandsires Talk Of Yesterday With Sorrow, And For Our Children We Reserve Tomorrow.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.