I Am Not Of That Feather, To

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineerhoist With His Own Petard.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His Name Is.

I Can No Other Answer Make, But, Thanks, And Thanks.

Now Entertain Conjecture Of A Time When Creeping Murmur And The Poring Dark Fills The Wide Vessel Of The Universe.