Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

We See Which Way The Stream Of Time Doth Run.

I Have Almost Forgotten The Taste Of Fears: The Time Has Been, My Senses Would Have Cool’d To Hear A Night-shriek; And My Fell Of Hair Would At A Dismal Treatise Rouse And Stir As Life Were In’t: I Have Supt Full With Horrors; Direness, Familiar To My Slaughterous Thoughts, Cannot Once Start Me.

Oft Have I Heard That Grief Softens The Mind And Makes It Fearful And Degenerate.

To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

When You Do Dance, I Wish You A Wave O' The Sea, That You Might Ever Do Nothing But That.