The Icy Precepts Of Respect.

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.

For She Had Eyes And Chose Me.

How Many Ages Hence Shall This Our Lofty Scene Be Acted Over In States Unborn And Accents Yet Unknown!

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypres Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath; I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.