O, Pardon Me, Thou Bleeding

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?

For Thou Hast Given Me In This Beauteous Face A World Of Earthly Blessings To My Soul, If Sympathy Of Love Unite Our Thoughts.

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.

How Can Tyrants Safely Govern Home, Unless Abroad They Purchase Great Alliance.

Ready To Go But Never To Return.