Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!

Yet I Argue Not Against Heav'n's Hand Or Will, Nor Bate A Jot Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer Right Onward.

Back To Thy Punishment, False Fugitive, And To Thy Speed Add Wings.

Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

Thy Liquid Notes That Close The Eye Of Day.

Ere The Blabbing Eastern Scout, The Nice Morn, On Th' Indian Steep From Her Cabin'd Loop-hole Peep.