Passion Makes The Will Lord Of The

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks

I Do Not Hate A Proud Man, As I Do Hate The Engendering Of Toads.

Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed The Dear Repose For Limbs With Travel Tired; But Then Begins A Journey In My Head To Work My Mind, When Body's Work's Expir'd: For Then My Thoughts-from Far Where I Abide- Intend A Zealous Pilgrimage To Thee, And Keep My Drooping Eyelids Open Wide, Looking On Darkness Which The Blind Do See: Save That My Soul's Imaginary Sight Presents Thy Shadow To My Sightless View, Which, Like A Jewel Hung In Ghastly Night, Makes Black Night Beauteous And Her Old Face New. Lo! Thus, By Day My Limbs, By Night My Mind, For Thee, And For Myself No Quiet Find.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

His Neigh Is Like The Bidding Of A Monarch, And His Countenance Enforces Homage. He Is Indeed A Horse.