There Is An Old Poor

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

Love Hath Made Thee A Tame Snake

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

Children Wish Fathers Looked But With Their Eyes; Fathers That Children With Their Judgment Looked; And Either May Be Wrong.

Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them.