I Would Fain Die A Dry Death.

You Told A Lie, An Odious Damned Lie; Upon My Soul, A Lie, A Wicked Lie.

The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good Will.

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.

O That A Lady, Of One Man Refused, Should Of Another Therefore Be Abused!

Quote: What Angel Wakes Me From My Flowery Bed?