The Hind That Would Be Mated By

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

A Man In All The World's New Fashion Planted, That Hath A Mint Of Phrases In His Brain.

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; Thou Thy Worldly Task Hast Done, Home Art Gone, And Ta'en Thy Wages. Golden Lads And Girls All Must, As Chimney-sweepers, Come To Dust.

Such Thanks As Fits A King's Remembrance.

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.