My Dull Brain Was Wrought With Things

Let Fancy Still In My Sense In Lethe Steep; If It Be Thus To Dream, Still Let Me Sleep!

Young Adam Cupid, He That Shot So Trim, When King Cophetua Loved The Beggar-maid!

The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths.

For There Was Never Yet Philosoper That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently, However They Have Writ The Style Of Gods, And Made A Push At Chance And Sufferance.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds, That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief?