There's Beggary In Love That Can Be

The Law Hath Not Been Dead, Though It Hath Slept.

I Have Seen Roses Damask'd, Red And White, But No Such Roses See I In Her Cheeks.

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror.

If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness, Did Lay Siege To It, Making It Momentary As A Sound, Swift As A Shadow, Short As Any Dream, Brief As The Lightning In The Collied Night That, In A Spleen, Unfolds Both Heaven And Earth, And Ere A Man Hath Power To Say 'behold!' The Jaws Of Darkness Do Devour It Up; So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.

There Live Not Three Good Men Unhanged In England; And One Of Them Is Fat And Grows Old.