You Jig, You Amble, And You Lisp.

I Can See His Pride Peep Through Each Part Of Him.

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

Yon Grey Lines That Fret The Clouds Are Messengers Of Day.

I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years.

In Maiden Meditation, Fancy Free.