If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It

Give Me My Robe, Put On My Crown; I Have Immortal Longings In Me.

Virtue Preserv'd From Fell Destruction's Blast, Led On By Heaven, And Crown'd With Joy At Last.

Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.

The Play's The Thing.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.