Think not I am what I appear.

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense.

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane

Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails.