As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be,

Thou Lump Of Foul Deformity!

Have You Not Heard It Said Full Oft, A Woman's Nay Doth Stand For Naught?

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.

Bid The Dishonest Man Mend Himself; If He Mend, He Is No Longer Dishonest.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.