Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.

Grace Me No Grace, Nor Uncle Me No Uncle.

But Now Behold, In The Quick Forge And Working-house Of Thought, How London Doth Pour Out Her Citizens!