A Very Scurvy Fellow.

I Do Not Hate A Proud Man, As I Do Hate The Engendering Of Toads.

Oh! It Offends Me To The Soul To Hear A Robust Periwig-pated Fellow, Tear A Passion To Tatters, To Very Rags, To Split The Ears Of The Groundlings.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

The Gray-eyed Morn Smiles On The Frowning Night, Checkering The Eastern Clouds With Streaks Of Light.