Tired With All These, For Restful Death

A Woman That Is Like A German Clock, Still A-repairing, Ever Out Of Frame, And Never Going Aright, Being A Watch, But Being Watched That It May Still Go Right!

You Are Strangely Troublesome.

If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness, Did Lay Siege To It, Making It Momentary As A Sound, Swift As A Shadow, Short As Any Dream, Brief As The Lightning In The Collied Night That, In A Spleen, Unfolds Both Heaven And Earth, And Ere A Man Hath Power To Say 'behold!' The Jaws Of Darkness Do Devour It Up; So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.

Rumor Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures.

Their Manners Are More Gentle, Kind, Than Of Our Human Generation You Shall Find.