While We Lie Tumbling In The Hay.

A Hundred Thousand Welcomes: I Could Weep, And I Could Laugh; I Am Light And Heavy: Welcome.

My Rage Is Gone, And I Am Struck With Sorrow. Take Him Up. Help, Three O' Th' Chiefest Soldiers; I'll Be One. Beat Thou The Drum, That It Speaks Mournfully, Trail Your Steel Spikes. Though In This City He Hath Widowed And Unchilded Many A One, Which To This Hour Bewail The Injury, Yet He Shall Have A Noble Memory. Assist.

Twas A Clever Quibble. Here, A Garment For It.

The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left Unshown, Is Often Left Unloved.

Oft Have I Heard That Grief Softens The Mind And Makes It Fearful And Degenerate.