A Girl Takes Too Much Time To

My Brain More Busy Than The Labouring Spider Weaves Tedious Snares To Trap Mine Enemies.

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.