In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

Murder Most Foul, As In The Best It It; But This Most Foul, Strange, And Unnatural.

Bow, Stubborn Knees, And, Heart With Strings Of Steel, Be Soft As Sinews Of The New-born Babe. All Many Be Well.

Death Where Is Thy Sting? Love, Where Is Thy Glory?

I Would There Were No Age Between Sixteen And Three-and-twenty, Or That Youth Would Sleep Out The Rest; For There Is Nothing In The Between But Getting Wenches With Child, Wronging The Ancientry, Stealing, Fighting

For To Be Wise And Love Exceeds Man's Might.