This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly cry, Its veins down the neck distend, its eyes roll till they show nothing but their whites, Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn’d-in nails, The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground, while he speculates well.

This face is bitten by vermin and worms, And this is some murderer’s knife with a half-pull’d scabbard.

This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls there.

Features of my equals would you trick me with your creas’d and cadaverous march? Well, you cannot trick me.

I see your rounded never-erased flow, I see ’neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.