A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

They Told Me I Was Everything. 'tis A Lie, I Am Not Ague-proof.

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All The Skyey Influences.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.