Oh, That Way Madness Lies; Let Me

Pardon's The Word To All.

My Hounds Are Bred Out Of The Spartan Kind; So Flew'd, So Sanded; Their Heads Are Hung With Ears That Sweep Away The Morning Dew.

Men's Eyes Were Made To Look, And Let Them Gaze. I Will Not Budge For No Man's Pleasure.

Those Friends Thou Hast, And Their Adoption Tried, Grapple Them To Thy Soul With Hoops Of Steel; But Do Not Dull Thy Palm With Entertainment Of Each New-hatch'd, Unfledg'd Comrade.

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?