Right Joyous Are We To Behold Your

Tis Safter To Be That Which We Destroy Than By Destruction Dwell In Doubtful Joy.

Death Where Is Thy Sting? Love, Where Is Thy Glory?

Poor And Content Is Rich, And Rich Enough.

In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A Man As Modest Stillness And Humility: But When The Blast Of War Blows In Our Ears, Then Imitate The Action Of The Tiger; Stiffen The Sinews, Summon Up The Blood, Disguise Fair Nature With Hard-favour'd Rage; Then Lend The Eye A Terrible Aspect; . . . . Now Set The Teeth And Stretch The Nostril Wide, Hold Hard The Breath And Bend Up Every Spirit To His Full Height. On, On, You Noblest English.

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.