The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows

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

My Dull Brain Was Wrought With Things Forgotten.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

Light Vanity, Insatiate Cormorant, Consuming Means, Soon Preys Upon Itself.

Tis A Happy Thing To Be The Father Unto Many Sons.