Against Love's Fire Fear`s Frost Hath Dissolution

Tis But A Base, Ignoble Mind That Mounts No Higher Than A Bird Can Soar.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.

Opinion's But A Fool, That Makes Us Scan The Outward Habit By The Inward Man.

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