Coward Dogs Most Spend Their Mouths When

The Icy Precepts Of Respect.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.

Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May.

There Is A Tide In The Affairs Of Men

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.