My Wits Begin To Turn.

Let Us Not Burden Our Remembrances With A Heaviness That's Gone.

The Heart Hath Treble Wrong When It Is Barr'd The Aidance Of The Tongue.

Farewell The Plumed Troop, And The Big Wars That Make Ambition Virtue! O, Farewell! Farewell The Neighing Steed And The Shrill Trump, The Spirit-stirring Drum, Th' Ear-piercing Fife, The Royal Banner, And All Quality, Pride, Pomp, And Circumstance Of Glorious War!

Grief Makes One Hour Ten.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself