And, Looking On It With Lack-lustre Eye,

Were All The Letters Sun, I Could Not See One.

Henceforth, I'll Bear Affliction Till It Do Cry Out Itself, 'enough, Enough, And Die.

What Though Care Killed A Cat, Thou Hast Mettle Enough In Thee To Kill Care.

But Men May Construe Things After Their Fashion, Clean From The Purpose Of The Things Themselves.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.