Words Are Grown So False, I Am

Tis Much When Sceptres Are In Children's Hands, But More When Envy Breeds Unkind Division: There Comes The Ruin, There Begins Confusion.

Are You Sure/that We Are Awake? It Seems To Me/that Yet We Sleep, We Dream

Sleep Knits Up The Raveled Sleeve Of Care.

Heaven Take My Soul, And England Keep My Bones!

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.