Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

I Count Myself In Nothing Else So Happy As In A Soul Remembering My Good Friends

Mechanic Slaves With Greasy Aprons, Rules, And Hammers, Shall Uplift Us To The View.

I Cannot Speak Your England.

All Things That We Ordained Festival Turn From Their Office To Black Funeral-- Our Instruments To Melancholy Bells, Our Wedding Cheer To A Sad Burial Feast; Our Solemn Hymns To Sullen Dirges Change; Our Bridal Flowers Serve For A Buried Corse; And All Things Change Them To The Contrary.

Live How We Can, Yet Die We Must.