I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.

Once More Unto The Breach, Dear Friends, Once More; Or Close The Wall With Our English Dead.

Then Happy I That Love And Am Beloved, Where I May Not Remove Nor Be Removed.

When Sorrows Come, They Come Not Single Spies, But In Battalions.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.

Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet She Will Plod.