By Their Own Follies They Perished, The

Pffft, English. Who Needs That? I'm Never Going To England.

If You Serve Too Many Masters, You'll Soon Suffer.

The Bitter Dregs Of Fortune's Cup To Drain.

Hunger Is Insolent, And Will Be Fed.

Like A Girl, A Baby Running After Her Mother, Begging To Be Picked Up, And She Tugs On Her Skirts, Holding Her Back As She Tries To Hurry Off—all Tears, Fawning Up At Her, Till She Takes Her In Her Arms… That’s How You Look, Patroclus, Streaming Live Tears.