To Show An Unfelt Sorrow Is An

I Think The King Is But A Man As I Am: The Violet Smells To Him As It Doth To Me.

My Purpose Is, Indeed, A Horse Of That Color.

And Fearless Minds Climb Soonest Unto Crowns.

Thus Die I, Thus, Thus, Thus. Now Am I Dead, Now Am I Fled; My Soul Is In The Sky: Tongue, Lose Thy Light; Moon Take Thy Flight. Now Die, Die, Die, Die, Die.

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.