Dancing Is The Poetry Of The Foot.

O Freedom, First Delight Of Human Kind!

Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To Range.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

My Right Eye Itches, Some Good Luck Is Near.

The Winds That Never Moderation Knew, Afraid To Blow Too Much, Too Faintly Blew; Or Out Of Breath With Joy, Could Not Enlarge Their Straighten'd Lungs Or Conscious Of Their Charge.