I Am Resolved To Grow Fat, And

Damn'd Neuters, In Their Middle Way Of Steering, Are Neither Fish, Nor Flesh, Nor Good Red Herring.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

Reason Saw Not, Till Faith Sprung The Light.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.