In Nature's Infinite Book Of Secrecy A

And, Looking On It With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, "it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See," Quoth He, "how The World Wags."

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

How Easy It Is For The Proper-false In Woman's Waxen Hearts To Set Their Forms!

Death Where Is Thy Sting? Love, Where Is Thy Glory?

I'll Have No Husband, If You Be Not He.