Each In His Narrow Cell

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.

The Curfew Tolls The Knell Of Parting Day, The Lowing Herd Winds Slowly O'er The Lea, The Ploughman Homeward Plods His Weary Way, And Leaves The World To Darkness And To Me.

Not All That Tempts Your Wandering Eyes And Heedless Hearts, Is Lawful Prize; Nor All That Glisters Gold.

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.