Cruelty Is More Cruell, If We Defer

Speake Not Of A Dead Man At The Table.

The Child Saies Nothing, But What It Heard By The Fire.

The Soule Needs Few Things, The Body Many.

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?