Pray You Now, Forget And Forgive.

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.

The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent Of Bearing Them Is Just.

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

Some Report A Sea-maid Spawn'd Him; Some That He Was Begot Between Two Stock-fishes. But It Is Certain That When He Makes Water His Urine Is Congealed Ice.