MondayApr 06, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dare not put it to the touch, To win or lose it all.
Lines Written on the Window of his Jail the Night before his Execution. Let them bestow on every airth a limb; Then open all my veins, that I may swim To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake; Then place my parboiled head upon a stake Scatter my ashesstrew them in the air; Lord! since thou knowst where all these atoms are, Im hopeful thoult recover once my dust, And confident thoult raise me with the just.
He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.
I 'll make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword.
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