I Love Thee, I Love

The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of Honor.

No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead Than You Shall Hear The Surly Sullen Bell Give Warning To The World That I Am Fled From This Vile World With Vilest Worms To Dwell: Nay, If You Read This Line, Remember Not The Hand That Writ It, For I Love You So, That I In Your Sweet Thoughts Would Be Forgot, If Thinking On Me Then Should Make You Woe. O! If, I Say, You Look Upon This Verse When I Perhaps Compounded Am With Clay, Do Not So Much As My Poor Name Rehearse; But Let Your Love Even With My Life Decay; Lest The Wise World Should Look Into Your Moan, And Mock You With Me After I Am Gone.

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

Where Is Your Ancient Courage? You Were Used To Say Extremities Was The Trier Of Spirits; That Common Chances Common Men Could Bear; That When The Sea Was Calm All Boats Alike Showed Mastership In Floating.