I'll Make Death Love Me; For I

What The Great Ones Do, The Less Will Prattle Of

By My Soul I Swear, There Is No Power In The Tongue Of Man To Alter Me.

Sweet Are The Uses Of Adversity Which, Like The Toad, Ugly And Venomous, Wears Yet A Precious Jewel In His Head.

O, The Blood More Stirs To Rouse A Lion Than To Start A Hare!

We Are Not Ourselves When Nature, Being Oppressed, Commands The Mind To Suffer With The Body.