To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek

If Thou Remeber'st Not The Slightest Folly That Ever Love Did Make Thee Run Into, Thou Hast Not Lov'd

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.

Not That I Loved Caesar Less, But That I Loved Rome More.

Death-counterfeiting Sleep.

O Polished Perturbation! Golden Care! That Keep'st The Ports Of Slumber Open Wide To Many A Watchful Night.