So Wise So Young, They

Extremity Is The Trier Of Spirits.

No Deeper Wrinkles Yet? Hath Sorrow Struck So Many Blows Upon This Face Of Mine And Made No Deeper Wounds?

Thus Did I Keep My Person Fresh And New, My Presence, Like A Robe Pontifical, Ne'er Seen But Wondered At, And So My State, Seldom But Sumptuous, Showed Like A Feast.

The Little Dogs And All, Tray, Blanch, And Sweetheart-see, They Bark At Me.

Unsubstantial Death Is Amorous.