Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

Will All Great Neptune's Ocean Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand? No, This My Hand Will Rather The Multitudinous Seas Incarnadine, Making The Green One Red.

What Is The City But The People?

The Barge She Sat In, Like A Burnish'd Throne, Burnt On The Water.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.