I Feel Within Me A

Give To A Gracious Message An Host Of Tongues, But Let Ill Tidings Tell Themselves When They Be Felt.

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

Thou Art The Best O' The Cut-throats

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.