A King Of Infinite Space

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

In Religion, What Damned Error But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It, And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament?

They Are Fairies; He That Speaks To Them Shall Die. I'll Wink And Couch; No Man Their Works Must Eye.

Cursed Be The Hand That Made These Fatal Holes.

Though It Make The Unskillful Laugh, Cannot But Make The Judicious Grieve.