To Be Furious, Is To

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.

If I Had My Mouth, I Would Bite; If I Had My Liberty, I Would Do My Liking. In The Meantime, Let Me Be That I Am, And Seek Not Toalter Me.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

Yet, For I Know Thou Art Religious And Hast A Thing Within Thee Called Conscience, With Twenty Popish Tricks And Ceremonies Which I Have Seen Thee Careful To Observe, Therefore I Urge Thy Oath; For That I Know An Idiot Holds His Bauble For A God And Keeps The Oath Which By That God He Swears, To That I'll Urge Him: Therefore Thou Shalt Vow By That Same God, What God Soe'er It Be, That Thou Adorest And Hast In Reverence, To Save My Boy, To Nourish And Bring Him Up, Or Else I Will Discover Naught To Thee.

I Will Keep Where There Is Wit Stirring, And Leave The Faction Of Fools.