Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From

If Love Be Blind, Love Cannot Hit The Mark

In Truth, Fair Montague, I Am Too Fond.

What's The Newest Grief? Each Minute Tunes A New One.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich

From Camp To Camp, Through The Foul Womb Of Night, The Hum Of Either Army Stilly Sounds, That The Fixed Sentinels Almost Receive The Secret Whispers Of Each Other's Watch. Fire Answers Fire, And Through Their Play Flames Each Battle Sees The Other's Umbered Face. Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.