The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

Prepare For Mirth, For Mirth Becomes A Feast.

A Smile Cures The Wounding Of A Frown.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

This Blessed Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England.