He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.

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

Desperate Times Breed Desperate Measures

Who Is It That Can Tell Me Who I Am?

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.

Ay, Is It Not A Language I Speak?