A Little More Than Kin, And Less

O! For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention.

Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows Us A Man: They Are All But Stomachs, And We All But Food; They Eat Us Hungerly, And When They Are Full They Belch Us.

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

I Cannot Speak Your England.

To You Your Father Should Be As A God.