Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus,

I Think Thy Horse Will Sooner Con An Oration Than Thou Learn A Prayer Without Book.

I May Neither Choose Who I Would, Nor Refuse Who I Dislike; So Is The Will Of A Living Daughter Curbed By The Will Of A Dead Father.

Alack, The Night Comes On, And The Bleak Winds Do Sorely Ruffle; For Many Miles About There's Scarce A Bush.

Love Goes Toward Love As Schoolboys From Their Books, But Love From Love, Toward School With Heavy Looks.

He Makes A July's Day Short As December.