You Lack The Season Of All Natures,

Let Me Be Ignorant, And In Nothing Good, But Graciously To Know I Am No Better.

What If This Cursed Hand Were Thicker Than Itself With Brother's Blood Is There Not Rain Enough In The Sweet Heaves To Wash It White As Snow?

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

In The Night, Imagining Some Fear, How Easy Is A Bush Supposed A Bear!

It Is As Easy To Count Atomies As To Resolve The Propositions Of A Lover.