I Had Rather Be A

The Wind-shak'd Surge, With High And Monstrous Main, Seems To Cast Water On The Burning Bear, And Quench The Guards Of The Ever-fixed Pole.

Now Entertain Conjecture Of A Time When Creeping Murmur And The Poring Dark Fills The Wide Vessel Of The Universe.

Tis A Happy Thing To Be The Father Unto Many Sons.

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'

Time And The Hour Run Through The Roughest Day.