Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity

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

The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her Pale Fire She Snatches From The Sun.

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

O, Reason Not The Need!

Supposition All Our Lives Shall Be Stuck Full Of Eyes; For Treason Is But Trusted Like The Fox, Who, Ne'er So Tame, So Cherished And Locked Up, Will Have A Wild Trick Of His Ancestors.