Glory Is Like A Circle In The

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineerhoist With His Own Petard.

Zounds! Sir, You Are One Of Those That Will Not Serve God If The Devil Bid You.

You Have But Mistook Me All The While... I Live By Bread Like You, Taste Grief, Feel Want, Need Friends. Conditioned Thus How Can You Call Me King?

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness.

I Have Ventured, Like Little Wanton Boys That Swim On Bladders, This Many Summers In A Sea Of Glory, But Far Beyond My Depth. My High-blown Pride At Length Broke Under Me, And Now Has Left Me, Weary And Old With Service, To The Mercy Of A Rude Stream That Must For Ever Hide Me.