A Very Ancient And Fish-like Smell.

Every Inordinate Cup Is Unbless'd, And The Ingredient Is A Devil.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

Pardon's The Word To All.

Wolves And Bears, They Say, Casting Their Savagery Aside, Have Done Like Offices Of Pity.