There Is Throats To Be Cut, And

I Begin To Find An Idle And Fond Bondage In The Oppression Of Aged Tyranny, Who Sways, Not As It Hath Power, But As It Is Suffered.

So Many Hours Must I Take My Rest; So Many Hours Must I Contemplate.

Now Entertain Conjecture Of A Time When Creeping Murmur And The Poring Dark Fills The Wide Vessel Of The Universe.

God's Will! My Liege, Would You And I Alone, Without More Help, Could Fight This Royal Battle!

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.