All, As They Say, That Glitters Is

And That One Hunting, Which The Devil Design'd For One Fair Female, Lost Him Half The Kind.

Luxurious Kings Are To Their People Lost, They Live Like Drones, Upon The Public Cost.

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Bankrupt Of Life, Yet Prodigal Of Ease.

What Judgment I Had Increases Rather Than Diminishes; And Thoughts, Such As They Are, Come Crowding In So Fast Upon Me, That My Only Difficulty Is To Choose Or Reject; To Run Them Into Verse Or To Give Them The Other Harmony Of Prose.