To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow

He Was Not So Much Brain As Earwax

I Never See Thy Face But I Think Upon Hell-fire.

Pray, Love, Remember: And There Is Pansies, That's For Thoughts.

Do All Men Kill The Things They Do Not Love?

Let Fame, That All Hunt After In Their Lives, Live Regist'red Upon Our Brazen Tombs And Then Grace Us In The Disgrace Of Death; When, Spite Of Cormorant Devouring Time, Th' Endeavor Of This Present Breath May Buy That Honor Which Shall Bate His Scythe's Keen Edge And Make Us Heirs Of All Eternity.