The Quality Of Mercy Is

Time Doth Transfix The Flourish Set On Youth And Delves The Parallels In Beauty's Brow.

Thou Art Thy Mother's Glass, And She In Thee Calls Back The Lovely April Of Her Prime...

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

O Horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue Nor Heart Cannot Conceive Nor Name Thee!

Dream On, Dream On, Of Bloody Deeds And Death.