I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf,

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.

The Life, Which Others Pay, Let Us Bestow, And Give To Fame What We To Nature Owe.

The Lot Of Man-to Suffer And Die.

She Threw Into The Wine Which They Were Drinking A Drug Which Takes Away Grief And Passion And Brings Forgetfulness Of All Ills

God Help Me, I'm Just Not That Bright.