I Feel It Gone, Yet Know Not

I Have Supped Full With Horrors.

All Furnished, All In Arms; All Plum'd Like Estridges That With The Wind Bated Like Eagles Having Lately Bathed; Glittering In Golden Coats Like Images; As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May And Gorgeous As The Sun At Midsummer; Wanton As Youthful Goats, Wild As Young Bulls.

Twere To Consider Too Curiously, To Consider So.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

A High Hope For A Low Heaven: God Grant Us Patience!