So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.
That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shoring treasure of a soul resolved and brave.
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.
To so perverse a sex all grace is vain.