A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

Gloucester, We Have Done Deeds Of Charity, Made Peace Of Enmity, Fair Love Of Hate, Between These Swelling Wrong-incensed Peers.

Now Entertain Conjecture Of A Time When Creeping Murmur And The Poring Dark Fills The Wide Vessel Of The Universe.

I'll Speak In A Monstrous Little Voice.

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.