Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision,

The Weight Of This Sad Time We Must Obey, Speak What We Feel, Not What We Ought To Say. The Oldest Hath Borne Most: We That Are Young Shall Never See So Much, Nor Live So Long.

Evermore Thanks, The Exchequer Of The Poor

Thus Weary Of The World, Away She Hies, And Yokes Her Silver Doves; By Whose Swift Aid Their Mistress Mounted Through The Empty Skies In Her Light Chariot Quickly Is Convey'd; Holding Their Course To Paphos, Where Their Queen Means To Immure Herself And Not Be Seen.

Though I Be But Prince Of Wales, Yet I Am The King Of Courtesy.

The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows Make.