For Such Things As You, I Can

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

What's Done Can't Be Undone.

Sick In The World's Regard, Wretched And Low.

Cursed Be The Hand That Made These Fatal Holes.

And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up.