The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows

O England! Model To Thy Inward Greatness, Like Little Body With A Might Heart.

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

Life's Uncertain Voyage.