Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

Like A Red Morn That Ever Yet Betokened, Wreck To The Seaman, Tempest To The Field, Sorrow To The Shepherds, Woe Unto The Birds, Gusts And Foul Flaws To Herdmen And To Herds.

Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Farewell, My Sister, Fare Thee Well. The Elements Be Kind To Thee, And Make Thy Spirits All Of Comfort: Fare Thee Well.

The Force Of His Own Merit Makes His Way-a Gift That Heaven Gives For Him.

Sit By My Side, And Let The World Slip: We Shall Ne'er Be Younger.