Tis Mad Idolatry To Make The Service

The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is Her Tomb.

I Am That Merry Wanderer Of The Night.

Feed On Her Damask Cheek: She Pined In Thought, And With A Green And Yellow Melancholy She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief

Perseverance, My Dear Lord. Keeps Honour Bright.

How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?