There Is Throats To Be Cut, And

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguil'd

When Griping Grief The Heart Doth Wound, And Doleful Dumps The Mind Opresses, Then Music, With Her Silver Sound, With Speedy Help Doth Lend Redress.

Let Not Our Babbling Dreams Affright Our Souls; Conscience Is But A Work That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe: Our Strong Arms Be Our Conscience, Swords Our Law!

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.