Were Kisses All The Joys

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

Praise Us As We Are Tasted, Allow Us As We Prove.

My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

He Is White-livered And Red-faced.