Thou Art My Father, Thou

And To Thy Husband's Will Thine Shall Submit; He Over Thee Shall Rule.

If Weakness May Excuse, What Murderer, What Traitor, Parricide, Incestuous, Sacrilegious, But May Plead It? All Wickedness Is Weakness; That Plea, Therefore, With God Or Man Will Gain Thee No Remission.

Accuse Not Nature: She Hath Done Her Part; Do Thou But Thine.

What Needs My Shakespeare For His Honour'd Bones,- The Labour Of An Age In Piled Stones? Or That His Hallow'd Relics Should Be Hid Under A Star-y-pointing Pyramid? Dear Son Of Memory, Great Heir Of Fame, What Need'st Thou Such Weak Witness Of Thy Name?

Hope Allows Us To Bid Farewell To Fear.