My Wits Begin To Turn.

More Matter With Less Art.

Things Done Well And With A Care, Exempt Themselves From Fear.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

The Trust I Have Is In Mine Innocence, And Therefore Am I Bold And Resolute.

And All My Mother Came Into Mine Eyes And Gave Me Up To Tears.