And all large loathsomeness of all I hate,
Whose poisonous presence doth Caïna wait,
And better it were that they had ne’er been born,
I being dowered with hate of hate and scorn of scorn,
And shrinking not to name them newts and snakes,
Lepers and toads and frogs and hooting owls and crakes:
All these with ease of measureless might I sing,
And sound, though sheer stark mad, the same sweet string.
And many a theme I choose in wayfaring,
As one who passing plucks the sunflower