Exit, Pursued By A Bear.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

I See You Stand Like Greyhounds In The Slips, Straining Upon The Start. The Game's Afoot; Follow Your Spirit: And Upon This Charge, Cry — God For Harry! England And Saint George!

He's Loved Of The Distracted Multitude, Who Like Not In Their Judgement, But Their Eyes.

In Such Business Action Is Eloquence, And The Eyes Of Th’ Ignorant More Learned Than The Ears.

Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.