Give Me My Robe, Put On My

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

He Knows What It's Like To Strut And Fret His Hour Upon The Stage And Then Be Heard No More.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.