The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

O, What Men Dare Do! What Men May Do! What Men Daily Do, Not Knowing What They Do.

Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty Shadows.

The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows Make.

A Hundred Thousand Welcomes: I Could Weep, And I Could Laugh; I Am Light And Heavy: Welcome.