What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

I Wonder That You Will Still Be Talking. Nobody Marks You.

He Is Well Paid That Is Well Satisfied.

You Are Yoked With A Lamb, That Carries Anger As The Flint Bears Fire; Who, Much Enforced, Shows A Hasty Spank, And Straight Is Cold Again.