Here I and sorrows sit;

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King John. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Here in the body pent,

Absent from Him I roam,

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent

A day's march nearer home.

James Montgomery (1771-1854): At Home in Heaven.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty!

Let the toast pass;

Drink to the lass;

I 'll warrant she 'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816): School for Scandal. Act iii. Sc. 3.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty!

Let the toast pass;

Drink to the lass;

I 'll warrant she 'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816): School for Scandal. Act iii. Sc. 3.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty!

Let the toast pass;

Drink to the lass;

I 'll warrant she 'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816): School for Scandal. Act iii. Sc. 3.

The modest front of this small floor,

Believe me, reader, can say more

Than many a braver marble can,—

"Here lies a truly honest man!"

Richard Crashaw (Circa 1616-1650): Epitaph upon Mr. Ashton.

Here lies our sovereign lord the king,

Whose word no man relies on;

He never says a foolish thing,

Nor ever does a wise one.

Earl Of Rochester (1647-1680): Written on the Bedchamber Door of Charles II.

'T is neither here nor there.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act iv. Sc. 3.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown:

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): The Epitaph.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here we will sit and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins.

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act v. Sc. 1.