The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows

My Cake Is Dough, But I'll In Among The Rest, Out Of Hope Of All But My Share Of The Feast.

Now Let It Work. Mischief, Thou Art Afoot. Take Thou What Course Thou Wilt.

Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry.

Murder Most Foul, As In The Best It It; But This Most Foul, Strange, And Unnatural.

O, Call Back Yesterday, Bid Time Return