We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

What Freezings I Have Felt, What Dark Days Seen, What Old December's Bareness Everywhere!

Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

When Workmen Strive To Do Better Than Well, They Do Confound Their Skill In Covetousness.

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men; And Being Men, Hearing The Will Of Caesar, It Will Inflame You, It Will Make You Mad.