O Heresy In Fair, Fit

I Stalk About Her Door, Like A Strange Soul Upon The Stygian Banks Staying For Waftage.

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.

O Sleep! O Gentle Sleep! Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frighted Thee, That Thou No More Wilt Weigh My Eyelids Down And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness? Why Rather, Sleep, Liest Thou In Smoky Cribs, Upon Uneasy Pallets Stretching Thee, And Hush'd With Buzzing Night-flies To Thy Slumber, Than In The Perfum'd Chambers Of The Great, Under The Canopies Of Costly State, And Lull'd With Sound Of Sweetest Melody?

An Honest Tale Speeds Best Being Plainly Told.

For We, Which Now Behold These Present Days, Have Eyes To Wonder, But Lack Tongues To Praise.