We Waste Our Lights In Vain, Like

That Skull Had A Tongue In It, And Could Sing Once: How The Knave Jowls It To The Ground, As If It Were Cain's Jaw-bone, That Did The First Murder! It Might Be The Pate Of A Politician, Which This Ass Now O'er-reaches; One That Would Circumvent God, Might It Not?

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.

O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou Art As Glorious To This Night, Being O'er My Head As Is A Winged Messenger Of Heaven

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.