Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I

Fortune Is Merry, And In This Mood Will Give Us Anything.

I'll Make My Heaven In A Lady's Lap

Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feelings As To Sight?

I Have Of Late--but Wherefore I Know Not--lost All My Mirth, Forgone All Custom Of Exercise.

You Know That I Do Fawn On Men, And Hug Them Hard, And After Scandal Them.