If We Are True To

To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream - Ay, There's The Rub, For In This Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

Pardon's The Word To All.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

Like A Barber's Chair That Fits All Buttocks.

Good Friend For Jesus Sake Forbeare, To Digg The Dust Encloased Heare! Blest Be The Man That Spares Thes Stones, And Curst Be He That Moves My Bones.