I Know No Ways To Mince It

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

To Offend And Judge Are Distinct Offices, And Of Opposed Natures.

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.

Hadst Thou No Poison Mixed, No Sharp-ground Knife, No Sudden Mean Of Death, Though Ne'er So Mean, But 'banished' To Kill Me--'banished'? O Friar, The Damned Use That Word In Hell; Howling Attends It! How Hast Thou The Heart, Being A Divine, A Ghostly Confessor, A Sin-absolver, And My Friend Professed, To Mangle Me With That Word 'banished'?

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.