Thou Shalt Be Free As Mountain Winds:

Not All The Water In The Rough Rude Sea Can Wash The Balm From An Anointed King.

Men Shut Their Doors Against A Setting Sun.

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.

What Can Be Avoided Whose End Is Purposed By The Mighty Gods?

What Is More Miserable Than Discontent?