O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

Look On Beauty, And You Shall See 'tis Purchased By The Weight, Which Therein Works A Miracle In Nature, Making Them Lightest That Wear Most Of It.

Equality Of Two Domestic Powers Breeds Scrupulous Faction.

Fight To The Last Gasp.