No Man's Pie Is Freed

Present Fears Are Less Than Horrible Imaginings.

Like A Man Made After Supper Of A Cheese-paring: When A' Was Naked, He Was, For All The World, Like A Forked Radish, With A Head Fantastically Carved Upon It With A Knife.

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good Will.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.