Love Is A Wonderful, Terrible Thing

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Good Reasons Must Of Force Give Place To Better.

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror, But When It First Did Help To Wound Itself. Now These Her Princes Are Come Home Again, Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them. Nought Shall Make Us Rue, If England To Itself Do Rest But True.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

Thou Shalt Be Both The Plaintiff And The Judge Of Thine Own Cause.