He Is The Most Wretched Of Men

Alas, Their Love May Be Call'd Appetite. No Motion Of The Liver, But The Palate

Chain Me With Roaring Bears; Or Shut Me Nightly In A Charnel-house, O'er-covered Quite With Dead Men's Rattling Bones, With Reeky Shanks And Yellow Chapless Skulls; Or Bid Me Go Into A New-made Grave, And Hide Me With A Dead Man In His Shroud; Things That, To Hear Them Told, Have Made Me Tremble; And I Will Do It Without Fear Or Doubt, To Live An Unstain'd Wife Of My Sweet Love.

So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life, Or As Sweet Seasoned Showers Are To The Ground.

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.

An Arrant Traitor As Any Is In The Universal World, Or In France, Or In England.