With fine delusive sleights
when I am lost in blended dust,
And hundred such as I am, in succession
like an old smoked wall, on which the rain
ran down in streaks,
Made all of terms and shreds
Within a human compass.
O, there spoke…
To his drug-lecture draws your itching ears,
… or am in love
Sir, if I do it not, draw your just sword
And score your vengeance on my front and face;
Mark me your villain

that stop the organs, and, as Plato says,
Assassinates our knowledge.
…such a hail of words
She has let fall 

Applying fire to a stone.