So I lose none / In seeking to augment it, but still keep / My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, / I shall be counsell’d.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible / To feeling as to sight? or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

A little water clears us of this deed: / How easy is it then!

These deeds must not be thought / After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

The sleeping and the dead / Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood / That fears a painted devil.

Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, / And look on death itself!

If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key.

The labour we delight in physics pain.

’Tis unnatural, / Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, / A falcon, towering in her pride of place, / Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.

Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, / Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, / And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.