Tongues I'll Hang On Every Tree That

Hopeless And Helpless Doth Egeon Wend, But To Procrastinate His Liveless End.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

Men In Rage Strike Those That Wish Them Best.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

I Am As True As Truth's Simplicity, And Simpler Than The Infancy Of Truth.