Like A Barber's Chair That

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

Let The Sap Of Reason Quench The Fire Of Passion.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.