How Much An Ill Word

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds, That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief?

Tis Time To Fear When Tyrants Seem To Kiss.

War Is No Strife To The Dark House And The Detested Wife.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art Not So Unkind, As Man's Ingratitude.

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.