I Fill Up A Place, Which May

Gold Were As Good As Twenty Orators.

A Tardiness In Nature, Which Often Leaves The History Unspoke, That It Intends To Do.

So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt, It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.

Dispute Not With Her: She Is Lunatic.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.