Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

O God, O God, How Weary, Stale, Flat, And Unprofitable Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World!

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.