Anger And Just Rebuke, And

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

The Strongest And The Fiercest Spirit That Fought In Heaven, Now Fiercer By Despair.

And Live Like Nature's Bastards, Not Her Sons.

And So Sepúlchred In Such Pomp Dost Lie, That Kings For Such A Tomb Would Wish To Die.

Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.