Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender

So Loving To My Mother, That He Might Not Beteem The Winds Of Heaven, Visit Her Face' Too Roughly.

When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is At Hand.

O, Train Me Not, Sweet Mermaid, With Thy Note, To Drown Me In Thy Sister’s Flood Of Tears.

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.

Taffeta Phrases, Silken Terms Precise, Three-piled Hyperboles, Spruce Affection, Figures Pedantical--these Summer Flies Have Blown Me Full Of Maggot Ostentation.