I Had As Lief Have Been Myself

To This Urn Let Those Repair That Are Either True Or Fair; For These Dead Birds Sigh A Prayer.

Ay, But To Die And Go We Know Not Where; To Lie In Cold Obstrution And To Rot; This Sensible Warm Motion To Become A Kneaded Clod; And The Delighted Spirit To Bathe In Fiery Floods Or To Reside In Thrilling Regions Of Thick-ribbed Ice; To Be Imprison'd In The Viewless Winds, And Blown With Restless Violence Round About The Pendant World.

I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Speak Of Me As I Am. Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice.

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most?