My Grief Lies Onward, And My Joy

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

O Villains, Vipers, Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man!

Every Offense Is Not A Hate At First.

What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.