I Dote On His Very Absence.

Adversity Makes Strange Bedfellows.

Alas, Our Frailty Is The Cause , Not We! For, Such As We Are Made Of, Such We Be.

Men Must Learn Now With Pity To Dispense; For Policy Sits Above Conscience.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me? Young Son, It Argues A Distemper'd Head So Soon To Bid Good Morrow To Thy Bed: Care Keeps His Watch In Every Old Man's Eye, And Where Care Lodges, Sleep Will Never Lie; But Where Unbruised Youth With Unstuff'd Brain Doth Couch His Limbs, There Golden Sleep Doth Reign.