Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!

How low am I, thou painted maypole?

Soft pity enters an iron gate.

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.

Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.