He Is The Most Wretched

Fortune Is Merry, And In This Mood Will Give Us Anything.

There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die, No Soul Will Pity Me.

For In That Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

Courage Mounteth With Occasion.