The Man That Hath No Music In

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

Be Just, And Fear Not. Let All The Ends Thou Aim'st At Be Thy Country's, Thy God's And Truth's.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Thy Friendship Makes Us Fresh.

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.