Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A

England Is Safe, If True Within Itself.

These Words Are Razors To My Wounded Heart.

When I Have Plucked The Rose, I Cannot Give It Vital Growth Again, It Needs Must Wither. I'll Smell It On The Tree.

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

Polonius: Do You Know Me, My Lord? Hamlet: Excellent Well. You Are A Fishmonger.