How Strange Or Odd Some'er I Bear

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

To You Your Father Should Be As A God.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

For We, Which Now Behold These Present Days, Have Eyes To Wonder, But Lack Tongues To Praise.

Farewell The Plumed Troop, And The Big Wars That Make Ambition Virtue! O, Farewell! Farewell The Neighing Steed And The Shrill Trump, The Spirit-stirring Drum, Th' Ear-piercing Fife, The Royal Banner, And All Quality, Pride, Pomp, And Circumstance Of Glorious War!