My Love To Thee Is Sound, Sans

This Thought Is As A Death.

I Do Not Hate A Proud Man, As I Do Hate The Engendering Of Toads.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.

My Love Admits No Qualifying Dross

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.