The Iron Tongue Of Midnight Hath Told

Nothing Routs Us But The Villainy Of Our Fears.

Like The Lily That Once Was Mistress Of The Field And Flourished, I'll Hang My Head And Perish.

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water, Which Never Ceaseth To Enlarge Itself, Till, By Broad Spreading, It Disperse To Naught.

Flesh And Blood, You, Brother Mine, That Entertain'd Ambition, Expell'd Remorse And Nature, Who, With Sebastian- Whose Inward Pinches Therefore Are Most Strong- Would Here Have Kill'd Your King, I Do Forgive Thee, Unnatural Though Thou Art.

Praising What Is Lost Makes The Remembrance Dear