For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And

My Brain Is Dull, My Sight Is Foul, I Cannot Write A Verse, Or Read-- Then, Pallas, Take Away Thine Owl, And Let Us Have A Lark Instead.

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

Bells Are Musics Laughter.

For My Part, Getting Up Seems Not So Easy By Half As Lying.

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.