I Have Drunk And Seen The Spider.

Words Are Easy, Like The Wind; Faithful Friends Are Hard To Find.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

A Man Can Die But Once.

I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity With Cozening Hope.

And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit Lifts Me Above The Ground With Cheerful Thoughts.