A Rarer Spirit Never Did Steer Humanity;

Ruin Has Taught Me To Ruminate, That Time Will Come And Take My Love Away. This Thought Is As A Death, Which Cannot Choose But Weep To Have That Which It Fears To Lose.

Direct Not Him Whose Way Himself Will Choose; 'tis Breath Not Lack'st, And That Breath Wilt Thou Lose.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.

I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon, For Too Much Loving You

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.