He Is Not Great Who Is Not

My Cousin's A Fool, And Thou Art Another.

Feed On Her Damask Cheek: She Pined In Thought, And With A Green And Yellow Melancholy She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief

Here Was A Caesar! When Comes Such Another?

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.