I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son

Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been Belch'd On By Infected Lungs.

The Gaudy, Blabbing, And Remorseful Day Is Crept Into The Bosom Of The Sea.

And Why Not Death Rather Than Living Torment? To Die Is To Be Banish'd From Myself; And Silvia Is Myself: Banish'd From Her Is Self From Self: A Deadly Banishment!

What Have We Here? A Man Or A Fish? Dead Or Alive? A Fish: He Smells Like A Fish; A Very Ancient And Fishlike Smell; A Kind Of Not Of The Newest Poor-john. A Strange Fish!

The Patient Must Minister To Himself