I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could

Thou Hast Most Traitorously Corrupted The Youth Of The Realm In Erecting A Grammar School.

The Hand That Hath Made You Fair Hath Made You Good. Pity Is The Virtue Of The Law, And None But Tyrants Use It Cruelly.

Thriftless Ambition, That Wilt Ravin Up Thine Own Life's Means!

No Matter Where; Of Comfort No Man Speak: Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth

Well, God's Above All; And There Be Souls Must Be Saved, And There Be Souls Must Not Be Saved.