Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

Yet He Was Jealous, Though He Did Not Show It, For Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

And I Would Hear Yet Once Before I Perish The Voice Which Was My Music... Speak To Me!

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.