Now, Infidel, I Have You On The

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypres Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath; I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid.

For I Have Neither Wit, Nor Words, Nor Worth, Action, Nor Utterance, Nor The Power Of Speech, To Stir Men's Blood: I Only Speak Right On; I Tell You That Which You Yourselves Do Know.

Vengeance Is In My Heart, Death In My Hand,blood And Revenge Are Hammering In My Head.

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.

No Villainous Bounty Yet Hath Passed My Heart; Unwisely, Not Ignobly, Have I Given.