I Shall Laugh Myself To Death At

Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With Golden Wings, Melts Them.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.

Let Life Be Short, Else Shame Will Be Too Long.

Though Inclination Be As Sharp As Will, My Stronger Guilt Defeats My Strong Intent, And, Like A Man To Double Business Bound, I Stand In Pause Where I Shall First Begin, And Both Neglect.