Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield,

I Care Not, A Man Can Die But Once; We Owe God And Death.

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

Ingrateful Man With Liquorish Draughts, And Morsels Unctuous, Greases His Pure Mind That From It All Consideration Slips.

And Therefore, — Since I Cannot Prove A Lover, To Entertain These Fair Well-spoken Days, — I Am Determined To Prove A Villain, And Hate The Idle Pleasures Of These Days.