I Never See Thy Face But I

I Am Indeed, Sir, A Surgeon To Old Shoes; When They Are In Great Danger I Recover Them.

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.

And Why Not Death Rather Than Living Torment? To Die Is To Be Banish'd From Myself; And Silvia Is Myself: Banish'd From Her Is Self From Self: A Deadly Banishment!

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.