O, My Lord, You Said

I Wish You All The Joy That You Can Wish.

I Do Not Seek To Quench Your Love's Hot Fire, But Qualify The Fire's Extreme Rage, Lest It Should Burn Above The Bounds Of Reason.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

O Sleep! O Gentle Sleep! Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frighted Thee, That Thou No More Wilt Weigh My Eyelids Down And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness? Why Rather, Sleep, Liest Thou In Smoky Cribs, Upon Uneasy Pallets Stretching Thee, And Hush'd With Buzzing Night-flies To Thy Slumber, Than In The Perfum'd Chambers Of The Great, Under The Canopies Of Costly State, And Lull'd With Sound Of Sweetest Melody?

I'll Read Enough When I Do See The Very Book Indeed Where All My Sins Are Writ, And That's Myself.