Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

The Private Wound Is Deepest. O Time Most Accurst, 'mongst All Foes That A Friend Should Be The Worst!

Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will.

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

O For A Horse With Wings!

Is Man No More Than This? Consider Him Well. Thou Ow'st The Worm No Silk, The Beast No Hide, The Sheep No Wool, The Cat No Perfume. Here's Three On's Are Sophisticated. Thou Art The Thing Itself; Unaccommodated Man Is No More Than Such A Poor, Bare, Forked Animal As Thou Art.