Blind Is His Love, And

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

He That Dies Pays All Debts.

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought