The Apparel Oft Proclaims The

Death Is My Son-in-law. Death Is My Heir. My Daughter He Hath Wedded. I Will Die, And Leave Him All. Life, Living, All Is Death’s.

Thou Art A Very Ragged Wart.

My Love To Thee Is Sound, Sans Crack Or Flaw.

I And My Bosom Must Debate Awhile, And Then I Would No Other Company.

In Maiden Meditation, Fancy Free.