The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste

A Breath Thou Art, Servile To All The Skyey Influences.

A Sympathy In Choice.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.

The Caterpillars Of The Commonwealth, Which I Have Sworn To Weed And Pluck Away.

All Love's Pleasure Shall Not Match Its Woe.