The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.

But If The While I Think On Thee, Dear Friend, All Losses Are Restored And Sorrows End.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

The Love That Follows Us Sometime Is Our Trouble, Which Still We Thank As Love.

I Can Counterfeit The Deep Tragedian; Speak And Look Back, And Pry On Every Side, Tremble And Start, At Wagging Of A Straw, Intending Deep Suspicion.

What If This Cursed Hand Were Thicker Than Itself With Brother's Blood Is There Not Rain Enough In The Sweet Heaves To Wash It White As Snow?