O King, Believe Not This Hard-hearted Man!

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

Graze On My Lips; And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

In Thee Thy Mother Dies, Our Household's Name, My Death's Revenge, Thy Youth, And England's Fame.

To Fear The Worst Oft Cures The Worst.

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.