For Man Is A Giddy Thing, And

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine, In This I Bury All Unkindness.

Is It Possible He Should Know What He Is, And Be That He Is?

O, What Damned Minutes Tells He O'er Who Dotes, Yet Doubts, Suspects, Yet Fondly Loves!

Thou Frothy Tickle-brained Hedge-pig!