For I Am Nothing If Not Critical.

How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?

This Thou Perceivest, Which Makes Thy Love More Strong, To Love That Well Which Thou Must Leave Ere Long

A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling, Blasphemous, Incharitable Dog!

This Cold Night Will Turn Us All To Fools And Madmen.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.