Hot And Hasty, Like A Scotch Jig.

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !

Every Thing That Grows / Holds In Perfection But A Little Moment.

Teach Me, Dear Creature, How To Think And Speak; Lay Open To My Earthy-gross Conceit, Smother'd In Errors, Feeble, Shallow, Weak, The Folded Meaning Of Your Words' Deceit.

Men That Hazard All Do It In Hope Of Fair Advantages: A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows Of Dross.

How Many Things By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!