How Well He's Read, To

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Men's Faults Do Seldom To Themselves Appear.

I Hope To See London Once Ere I Die.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.