In Nature's Infinite Book Of Secrecy A

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

Ere Yet The Salt Of Most Unrighteous Tears Had Left The Flushing Of Her Gallèd Eyes, She Married. O, Most Wicked Speed, To Post With Such Dexterity To Incestuous Sheets!

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

They That Have Voice Of Lions And Act Of Hares,--are They Not Monsters?