Opinion Crowns With An Imperial Voice.

Ingratitude Is Monstrous.

I'll Forbear; And Am Fallen Out With My More Headier Will To Take The Indisposed And Sickly Fit For The Sound Man.

The Thing Of Courage As Rous'd With Rage Doth Sympathise, And, With An Accent Tun'd In Self-same Key, Retorts To Chiding Fortune.

I Never Yet Did Hear, That The Bruis'd Heart Was Pierced Through The Ear

Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed The Dear Repose For Limbs With Travel Tired; But Then Begins A Journey In My Head To Work My Mind, When Body's Work's Expir'd: For Then My Thoughts-from Far Where I Abide- Intend A Zealous Pilgrimage To Thee, And Keep My Drooping Eyelids Open Wide, Looking On Darkness Which The Blind Do See: Save That My Soul's Imaginary Sight Presents Thy Shadow To My Sightless View, Which, Like A Jewel Hung In Ghastly Night, Makes Black Night Beauteous And Her Old Face New. Lo! Thus, By Day My Limbs, By Night My Mind, For Thee, And For Myself No Quiet Find.