I Will Kill Thee A

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

I Can Counterfeit The Deep Tragedian; Speak And Look Back, And Pry On Every Side, Tremble And Start, At Wagging Of A Straw, Intending Deep Suspicion.

Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

So Shaken As We Are, So Wan With Care, Find We A Time For Frighted Peace To Pant And Breathe Short-winded Accents Of New Broils To Be Commenced In Stronds Afar Remote.