Many A Man's Tongue Shakes Out His

So Shalt Thou Feed On Death, That Feeds On Men.

He Is Winding The Watch Of His Wit; By And By It Will Strike.

To Mingle Friendship Far Is Mingling Bloods.

Things May Serve Long, But Not Serve Ever.

Feed On Her Damask Cheek: She Pined In Thought, And With A Green And Yellow Melancholy She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief