Don't Waste Your Love On Somebody, Who

We Few. We Happy Few. We Band Of Brothers, For He Today That Sheds His Blood With Me Shall Be My Brother.

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.

This England Never Did, Nor Never Shall, Lie At The Proud Foot Of A Conqueror.

For To Be Wise And Love Exceeds Man's Might.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?