It Is Lost At Dice, What Ancient

Ten Masts Make Not The Altitude Which Thou Hast Perpendicularly Fell. Thy Life's A Miracle.

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.

When Fortune Means To Men Most Good, She Looks Upon Them With A Threatening Eye.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else.