But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And

The Even Mead, That Erst Brought Sweetly Forth The Freckled Cowslip, Burnet, And Green Clover, Wanting The Scythe, All Uncorrected, Rank, Conceives By Idleness, And Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burrs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

The End Crowns All, And That Old Common Arbitrator, Time, Will One Day End It.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

Open Thy Gate Of Mercy, Gracious God, My Soul Flies Through These Wounds To Seek Out Thee.