Our Praises Are Our Wages.

O Sleep, O Gentle Sleep, Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frightened Thee, 1710. That Thou No More Will Weigh My Eyelids Down, And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness?

Time Is A Very Bankrupt And Owes More Than He's Worth To Season. Nay, He's A Thief Too: Have You Not Heard Men Say, That Time Comes Stealing On By Night And Day?

Beauty Itself Doth Of Itself Persuade The Eyes Of Men Without An Orator.

Thou Speak'st Like Him's Untutored To Repeat: Who Makes The Fairest Show Means Most Deceit.

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.