They That Stand High Have Many Blasts

Was Ever Woman In This Humour Wooed? Was Ever Woman In This Humour Won?

To Move Wild Laughter In The Throat Of Death? It Cannot Be; It Is Impossible: Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

Have More Than Thou Showest, Speak Less Than Thou Knowest, Lend Less Than Thou Owest.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

Where Shall We Three Meet Again In Thunder, Lightning, Or In Rain? When The Hurlyburly 's Done, When The Battle 's Lost And Won