Come The Three Corners Of The World

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

Some Are Born Great, Others Achieve Greatness.

Every Man Has A Bag Hanging Before Him, In Which He Puts His Neighbour's Faults, And Another Behind Him In Which He Stows His Own.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

Despair And Die. The Ghosts