The Tongues Of Dying Men

Let Us Not Burden Our Remembrances With A Heaviness That's Gone.

As I Love The Name Of Honour More Than I Fear Death.

When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is At Hand.

But Here's The Joy: My Friend And I Are One, Sweet Flattery!

Verily, I Swear, It Is Better To Be Lowly Born, And Range With Humble Livers In Content, Than To Be Perked Up In A Glistering Grief, And Wear A Golden Sorrow.