My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just,

This Manner Of Writing Wherein Knowing Myself Inferior To Myself? I Have The Use, As I May Account It, But Of My Left Hand.

The Never-ending Flight Of Future Days.

What Honour That, But Tedious Waste Of Time, To Sit And Hear So Many Hollow Compliments And Lies.

Take Heed Lest Passion Sway Thy Judgement To Do Aught, Which Else Free Will Would Not Admit.

Bid Amaranthus All His Beauty Shed, And Daffodillies Fill Their Cups With Tears, To Strew The Laureate To Hearse When Lycid Lies.