The Old Folk, Time's Doting Chronicles.

Hot And Hasty, Like A Scotch Jig.

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.

Memory, The Warder Of The Brain.

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

I Am Not Mad; I Would To Heaven I Were! For Then, 'tis Like I Should Forget Myself; O, If I Could, What Grief Should I Forget!