The Old Folk, Time's Doting Chronicles.

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

Where Love Is Great, The Littlest Doubts Are Fear; Where Little Fears Grow Great, Great Love Grows There.

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost.