Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

There's Neither Honesty, Manhood, Nor Good Fellowship In Thee.

Opinion, A Sovereign Mistress Of Effects.

If I For My Opinion Bleed, Opinion Shall Be Surgeon To My Hurt, And Keep Me On The Side Where Still I Am.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.