The Seeming Truth Which Cunning

The Soul Of This Man Is His Clothes.

Hadst Thou No Poison Mixed, No Sharp-ground Knife, No Sudden Mean Of Death, Though Ne'er So Mean, But 'banished' To Kill Me--'banished'? O Friar, The Damned Use That Word In Hell; Howling Attends It! How Hast Thou The Heart, Being A Divine, A Ghostly Confessor, A Sin-absolver, And My Friend Professed, To Mangle Me With That Word 'banished'?

As There Comes Light From Heaven And Words From Breath, As There Is Sense In Truth And Truth In Virtue

These Flowers Are Like The Pleasures Of The World.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.