The Barge She Sat In, Like A

O, That Our Fathers Would Applause Our Loves, To Seal Our Happiness With Hteir Consents!

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Travelers Never Did Lie, Though Fools At Home Condemn Them.

...and Then, In Dreaming, / The Clouds Methought Would Open And Show Riches / Ready To Drop Upon Me, That When I Waked / I Cried To Dream Again.