A Great Cause Of The Night Is

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

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

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.

Tis A Cruelty To Load A Fallen Man.

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.