Know My Name Is Lost, By Treason's

Death Rock Me Asleep.

An Overflow Of Good Converts To Bad.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full Of Noises.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.