Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet

I'll Teach You Differences.

I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His Name Is.

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

Weep Not, Sweet Queen, For Trickling Tears Are Vain.

Why, Universal Plodding Poisons Up The Nimble Spirits In The Arteries, As Motion And Long-during Action Tires The Sinewy Vigor Of The Traveller.