The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.

O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

I rather would entreat thy company; To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad