He Hath Eaten Me Out Of House

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

He Is Winding The Watch Of His Wit; By And By It Will Strike.

How Sometimes Nature Will Betray Its Folly, Its Tenderness, And Make Itself A Pastime To Harder Bosoms!

Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner Lost And Won, Than Women's Are.

I May Neither Choose Who I Would, Nor Refuse Who I Dislike; So Is The Will Of A Living Daughter Curbed By The Will Of A Dead Father.