Like Madness, Is The Glory Of This

As Flies To Wanton Boys, Are We To The Gods; They Kill Us For Their Sport.

Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Thou Lump Of Foul Deformity!

Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

Which Can Say More Than This Rich Praise, That You Alone Are You?