To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall with our English dead.

She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.