The Best Is Yet To Come.

Still Constant Is A Wondrous Excellence.

Done To Death By Slanderous Tongue

And So, From Hour To Hour, We Ripe And Ripe. And Then, From Hour To Hour, We Rot And Rot; And Thereby Hangs A Tale.

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

She Moves Me Not, Or Not Removes At Least Affection's Edge In Me.