Enough No More; Tis Not So Sweet

The Fear's As Bad As Falling.

My Brain More Busy Than The Labouring Spider Weaves Tedious Snares To Trap Mine Enemies.

These Blessed Candles Of The Night.

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?