Thy Wish Was Father, Harry, To That

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

Blow, Winds, And Crack Your Cheeks! Rage! Blow! You Cataracts And Hurricanoes, Spout Till You Have Drenched Our Teeples, Drowned The Cocks! You Sulphurour And Thought-executing Fires, Vaunt-couriers To Oak-cleaving Thunderbolts, Singe My White Head! And Thou, All-shaking Thunder, Strike Flat The Thick Rotundity O' The World! Crack Nature's Molds, All Germens Spill At Once That Make Ingrateful Man!

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.

To Show Our Simple Skill, That Is The True Beginning Of Our End.

In Time We Hate That Which We Often Fear.