Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The

And Where The Offense Is, Let The Great Axe Fall.

So Full Of Shapes Is Fancy

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?

Love Is Like A Child, That Longs For Everything It Can Come By

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.