Which, If Not Victory, Is

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap, Or Be With Ease Gathered, Not Harshly Plucked, For Death Mature: This Is Old Age; But Then Thou Must Outlive Thy Youth, Thy Strength, Thy Beauty, Which Will Change To Withered Weak And Grey.

License They Mean When They Cry Liberty; For Who Loves That, Must First Be Wise And Good.

Seas Wept From Our Deep Sorrows.

What Boots It At One Gate To Make Defence, And At Another To Let In The Foe?

No War Or Battle Sound Was Heard The World Around.