I Have Supped Full With

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

If The Skin Were Parchment And The Blows You Gave Were Ink, Your Own Handwriting Would Tell You What I Think.

You Are Yoked With A Lamb, That Carries Anger As The Flint Bears Fire; Who, Much Enforced, Shows A Hasty Spank, And Straight Is Cold Again.

I Have Drunk And Seen The Spider.

Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou Dost Not Feel.