'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.

Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned; alas; why should I be?

Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.