Let Every Man Be Master Of His

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

No Matter Where; Of Comfort No Man Speak: Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth

The Big Round Tears Cours'd One Another Down His Innocent Nose, In Piteous Chase.

Mine Eyes Are Full Of Tears, My Heart Of Grief.