O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here? Turn Back, Dull Earth, And Find Thy Centre Out.

How Lush And Lusty The Grass Looks! How Green!

Angels And Ministers Of Grace Defend Us! Be Thou A Spirit Of Health, Or Goblin Damn'd, Bring With Thee Airs From Heaven, Or Blasts From Hell, Be Thy Intents Wicked, Or Charitable, Thou Com'st In Such A Questionable Shape, That I Will Speak To Thee.

There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.