Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death

Grief Makes One Hour Ten.

The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest To The Ground.

My Brain More Busy Than The Labouring Spider Weaves Tedious Snares To Trap Mine Enemies.

O King, Believe Not This Hard-hearted Man!

Scarce Can I Speak, My Choler Is So Great. Oh! I Could Hew Up Rocks, And Fight With Flint.