𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍,
𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍—“𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎
𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝. . . . 𝙽𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍,
𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗,
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚙, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍,
𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜,
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚍;
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛:
𝙼𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝙾𝚣𝚢𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜, 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜;
𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜, 𝚢𝚎 𝙼𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛!"
𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜. 𝚁𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢
𝙾𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚕 𝚆𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚔, 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.