The King's Name Is A Tower Of

He Hath Borne Himself Beyond The Promise Of His Age, Doing, In The Figure Of A Lamb, The Feats Of A Lion.

O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!

I Can Call Spirits From The Vasty Deep.

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

Awake, Dear Heart, Awake. Thou Hast Slept Well. Awake.