Better A Little Chiding Than

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

In Sooth I Know Not Why I Am So Sad. It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You; But How I Caught It, Found It, Or Came By It, What Stuff 'tis Made Of, Whereof It Is Born, I Am To Learn.

Promising Is The Very Air O' Th' Time; It Opens The Eyes Of Expectation. Performance Is Ever Duller For His Act; And, But In The Plainer And Simpler Kind Of People, The Deed Of Saying Is Quite Out Of Use. To Promise Is Most Courtly And Fashionable; Performance Is A Kind Of Will Or Testament Which Argues A Great Sickness In His Judgment That Makes It.

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?

All Things That We Ordained Festival Turn From Their Office To Black Funeral-- Our Instruments To Melancholy Bells, Our Wedding Cheer To A Sad Burial Feast; Our Solemn Hymns To Sullen Dirges Change; Our Bridal Flowers Serve For A Buried Corse; And All Things Change Them To The Contrary.