Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

One Half Of Me Is Yours, The Other Half Is Yours, Mine Own, I Would Say; But If Mine, Then Yours, And So All Yours.

The Mind Of Guilt Is Full Of Scorpions.

My Hounds Are Bred Out Of The Spartan Kind; So Flew'd, So Sanded; Their Heads Are Hung With Ears That Sweep Away The Morning Dew.

That Skull Had A Tongue In It, And Could Sing Once: How The Knave Jowls It To The Ground, As If It Were Cain's Jaw-bone, That Did The First Murder! It Might Be The Pate Of A Politician, Which This Ass Now O'er-reaches; One That Would Circumvent God, Might It Not?