Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!

Son Of Heav'n And Earth, Attend: That Thou Art Happy, Owe To God; That Thou Continuest Such, Owe To Thyself, That Is, To Thy Obedience; Therein Stand.

What Hath Night To Do With Sleep?

Wisdom's Self Oft Seeks To Sweet Retired Solitude, Where With Her Best Nurse Contemplation, She Plumes Her Feathers, And Lets Grow Her Wings That In The Various Bustle Of Resort Were All To-ruffled, And Sometimes Impaired.

What Call Thou Solitude? Is Not The Earth With Various Living Creatures, And The Air Replenished, And All These At Thy Command To Come And Play Before Thee?

From Restless Thoughts, That, Like A Deadly Swarm Of Hornets Arm'd, No Sooner Found Alone, But Rush Upon Me Thronging.