When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity

That Affable Familiar Ghost Which Nightly Gulls Him With Intelligence.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here? Turn Back, Dull Earth, And Find Thy Centre Out.

A Cup Of Hot Wine With Not A Drop Of Allaying Tiber In 't.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves: The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament. In Law, What Plea So Tainted And Corrupt, But, Being Seasoned With A Gracious Voice, Obscures The Show Of Evil? In Religion, What Damned Error, But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament? There Is No Vice So Simple But Assumes Some Mark Of Virtue On His Outward Parts.