I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My

You Shall More Command With Years Than With Your Weapons.

Taste Your Legs, Sire: Put Them Into Motion.

What E'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time.

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.

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?