Vengeance Is In My Heart,

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death! O Limed Soul That, Struggling To Be Free, Art More Engaged! Help, Angels! Make Assay! Bow, Stubborn Knees! And, Heart With Strings Of Steel, Be Soft As Sinews Of The New-born Babe!

To-morrow, And To-morrow, And To-morrow, Creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day, To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time; And All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools The Way To Dusty Death. Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More. It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

Beauty Is But A Vain And Doubtful Good; A Shining Gloss That Fadeth Suddenly; A Flower That Dies When It Begins To Bud; A Doubtful Good, A Gloss, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour.

All Offences Come From The Heart.

Prosperity's The Very Bond Of Love.