Exit, Pursued By A Bear.

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

Poor And Content Is Rich, And Rich Enough.

What Should Such Fellows As I Do Crawling Between Earth And Heaven?

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.