Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers We'll

'tis Best To Weigh The Enemy More Mighty Than He Seems.

O Good Old Man, How Well In Thee Appears The Constant Service Of The Antique World, When Service Sweat For Duty, Not For Meed! Thou Art Not For The Fashion Of These Times, Where None Will Sweat But For Promotion, And Having That Do Choke Their Service Up Even With The Having. . . .

O Sleep! O Gentle Sleep! Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frighted Thee, That Thou No More Wilt Weigh My Eyelids Down And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness? Why Rather, Sleep, Liest Thou In Smoky Cribs, Upon Uneasy Pallets Stretching Thee, And Hush'd With Buzzing Night-flies To Thy Slumber, Than In The Perfum'd Chambers Of The Great, Under The Canopies Of Costly State, And Lull'd With Sound Of Sweetest Melody?

Dost Thou Think, Because Thou Art Virtuous, There Shall Be No More Cakes And Ale?

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.