O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

The Loyalty, Well Held To Fools, Does Make Our Faith Mere Folly.

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel, Do Not Press My Tongue-tied Patience With Too Much Disdain: Lest Sorrow Lend Me Words And Words Express, The Manner Of My Pity-wanting Pain.

Nature, As It Grows Again Toward Earth, Is Fashioned For The Journey, Dull And Heavy.