I Am Too Old To Fawn Upon

To-morrow, And To-morrow, And To-morrow, Creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day, To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time; And All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools The Way To Dusty Death. Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More. It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

What If This Cursed Hand Were Thicker Than Itself With Brother's Blood Is There Not Rain Enough In The Sweet Heaves To Wash It White As Snow?

Pride Went Before, Ambition Follows Him.

We Do Not Keep The Outward Form Of Order, Where There Is Deep Disorder In The Mind.

I Shall Show The Cinders Of My Spirits Through The Ashes Of My Chance.