'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is

I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.

Young Men Mend Not Their Sight By Using Old Men's Spectacles.

Goe And Catche A Falling Starre, Get With Child A Mandrake Root, Tell Me, Where All Past Yeares Are, Or Who Cleft The Divel's Foot. Teach Me To Hear Mermaides' Singing, Or To Keep Of Envies Stinging, And Finde What Winde Serves To Advance An Honest Minde.

He Must Pull Out His Own Eyes, And See No Creature, Before He Can Say, He Sees No God; He Must Be No Man, And Quench His Reasonable Soul, Before He Can Say To Himself, There Is No God.

There Is In Every Miracle A Silent Chiding Of The World, And A Tacit Reprehension Of Them Who Require, Or Who Need Miracles.