I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

What A Terrible Era In Which Idiots Govern The Blind.

O Sleep, O Gentle Sleep, Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frightened Thee, 1710. That Thou No More Will Weigh My Eyelids Down, And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness?

Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

If We Are Mark'd To Die, We Are Enow To Do Our Country Loss; And If To Live, The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of Honour. God's Will! I Pray Thee; Wish Not One Man More.

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.