A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling,

If I Shall Be Condemned Upon Surmises, All Proofs Sleeping Else But What Your Jealousies Awake, I Tell You 'tis Rigor And Not Law.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head? How Begot, How Nourished? Reply, Reply. It Is Engend'red In The Eyes, With Gazing Fed, And Fancy Dies In The Cradle Where It Lies.

Give Thy Thoughts No Tongue, Nor Any Unproportioned Thought His Act. Be Thou Familiar But By No Means Vulgar.

The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good Will.

I Am In Blood Stepp'd In So Far, That, Should I Wade No More, Returning Were As Tedious As Go O'er.