Things At The Worst Will Cease Or

Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick His Own Fingers.

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

I Have Had A Most Rare Vision. I Have Had A Dream, Past The Wit Of Man To Say What Dream It Was.