You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.

How Is It That The Clouds Still Hang On You?

Woe To That Land That's Governed By A Child.

He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Enriches Him And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

O Sleep, O Gentle Sleep, Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frightened Thee, 1710. That Thou No More Will Weigh My Eyelids Down, And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness?