Ay, Is It Not A Language I

Take You Me For A Sponge?

But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

This Sanguine Coward, This Bed-presser, This Horseback-breaker, This Huge Hill Of Flesh!

Tis Now The Very Witching Time Of Night, When Churchyards Yawn And Hell Itself Breathes Out Contagion To This World.

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.