I Shall Die Reading; Since

Nothing But Man Of All Envenomed Things, Doth Work Upon Itself, With Inborn Stings.

Doth Not A Man Die Even In His Birth? The Breaking Of Prison Is Death, And What Is Our Birth, But A Breaking Of Prison?

What Gnashing Is Not A Comfort, What Gnawing Of The Worm Is Not A Tickling, What Torment Is Not A Marriage Bed To This Damnation, To Be Secluded Eternally, Eternally, Eternally From The Sight Of God?

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.