Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.

That Which Hath Made Them Drunk Hath Made Me Bold; What Hath Quenched Them Hath Given Me Fire.

To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores.

Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s Well.