Making Night Hideous.

A Heavier Task Could Not Have Been Impos'd, Than I To Speak My Griefs Unspeakable.

They Are Sick That Surfeit With Too Much, As They That Starve With Nothing.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

Here's That Which Is Too Weak To Be A Sinner, Honest Water, Which Ne'er Left Man I' The Mire.

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.