Well, Every One Can Master A Grief

Such As We Are Made Of, Such We Be.

I Am Giddy, Expectation Whirls Me Round. The Imaginary Relish Is So Sweet That It Enchants My Sense.

Fight Valiantly To-day; And Yet I Do Thee Wrong To Mind Thee Of It, For Thou Art Framed Of The Firm Truth Of Valor.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

Time's Glory Is To Command Contending Kings, To Unmask Falsehood, And Bring Truth To Light.