The day breaks not, it is my heart.
Our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in The punishment.
All our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
We are all conceived in close prison; in our mothers wombs, we are close prisoners all; when we are born, we are born but to the liberty of the house; prisoners still, though within larger walls; and then all our life is but a going out to the place of execution, to death.
But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.