Well, Every One Can Master A Grief

Men Have Died From Time To Time, And Worms Have Eaten Them, But Not For Love.

O' Thinkest Thou We Shall Ever Meet Again? I Doubt It Not; And All These Woes Shall Serve For Sweet Discourses In Our Times To Come.

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.

You Great Benefactors, Sprinkle Our Society With Thankfulness. For Your Own Gifts, Make Yourselves Praised.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!