Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you
I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.
O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.
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.