Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

And Thou, All-shaking Thunder, Strike Flat The Thick Rotundity O' The World! Crack Nature's Moulds, All Germens Spill At Once That Makes Ingrateful Man!

Watch Tonight, Pray Tomorrow. Gallants, Lads, Boys, Hearts Of Gold, All The Titles Of Good Fellowship Come To You!

Come What Sorrow Can, It Cannot Countervail The Exchange Of Joy, That One Short Minute Gives Me In Her Sight

Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes.