But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade.

All Fancy-sick She Is And Pale Of Cheer, With Sighs Of Love, That Costs The Fresh Blood Dear.

Dispute Not With Her: She Is Lunatic.

A Man I Am Cross'd With Adversity.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

And He Goes Through Life, His Mouth Open, And His Mind Closed.