O War! Thou Son Of

Madam, You Have Bereft Me Of All Words, Only My Blood Speaks To You In My Veins.

Ready To Go But Never To Return.

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

England Is Safe, If True Within Itself.

The Labor We Delight In Physics [cures] Pain.