O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man

But Virtue Never Will Be Mov'd, Though Lewdness Court It In A Shape Of Heaven.

Or Art Thou But / A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, / Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

Death Where Is Thy Sting? Love, Where Is Thy Glory?

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp Sustaining.