O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

My Thoughts Are Whirled Like A Potter's Wheel; I Know Not Where I Am Nor What I Do.

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.

The Benediction Of These Covering Heavens Fall On Their Heads Like Dew, For They Are Worthy To Inlay Heaven With Stars.