I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Such Antics Do Not Amount To A Man.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

'by Heaven, That Thou Art Fair, Is Most Infallible True, That Thou Art Beauteous Truth Itself, That Thou Art Lovely. More Fairer Than Fair, Beautiful Than Beauteous, Truer Than Truth Itself, Have Commiseration On Thy Heroical Vassal.

O Comfort-killing Night, Image Of Hell, Dim Register And Notary Of Shame, Black Stage For Tragedies And Murders Fell, Vast Sin-concealing Chaos, Nurse Of Blame!

I Must Be Cruel Only To Be Kind; Thus Bad Begins, And Worse Remains Behind.