Hal, If I Tell Thee A Lie,

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

What Is Aught But As 'tis Valued?

Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.

Omittance Is No Quittance.

Let Us Our Lives, Our Souls, Our Debts, Our Careful Wives, Our Children, And Our Sins, Lay On The King!