Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

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

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

If It Be A Sin To Covet Honor, I Am The Most Offending Soul.

Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping Winter Treads.