The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.

Who Riseth From A Feast With That Keen Appetite That He Sits Down?

Truth Will Come To Sight; Murder Cannot Be Hid Long.

What Seest Thou Else In The Dark Backward And Abysm Of Time?

Prophet May You Be! If I Be False, Or Swerve A Hair From Truth, When Time Is Old And Hath Forgot Itself, When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy, And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up, And Mighty States Characterless Are Grated To Dusty Nothing, Yet Let Memory, From False To False, Among False Maids In Love, Upbraid My Falsehood!

Hardness Ever Of Hardness Is Mother.