This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In

To Beguile The Time, Look Like The Time.

Rich Gifts Wax Poor When Givers Prove Unkind.

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.