I Never Saw Any Good That Came

Only Man Clogs His Happiness With Care, Destroying What Is With Thoughts Of What May Be.

My Right Eye Itches, Some Good Luck Is Near.

Those Who Write Ill, And They Who Ne'er Durst Write, Turn Critics Out Of Mere Revenge And Spite.

Time And Death Shall Depart And Say In Flying Love Has Found Out A Way To Live, By Dying.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.